


Intoxicated

by spiciestpeanut



Category: Voltron - Fandom, Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cuban Lance (Voltron), Eventual relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Langst, M/M, Orphan Keith (Voltron), References to Depression, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2018-12-18 17:55:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 46,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11879760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiciestpeanut/pseuds/spiciestpeanut
Summary: A bright-eyed boy named Lance moves into a townhouse across the street from Keith, an antisocial college dropout unsure of what to do in life. Needless to say, Keith is surprised to meet Lance for the first time after coming home from a shift at the local nightclub, finding this new neighbor on his front porch drunkenly petting his cat.He's even more surprised when they actually become friends. Shenanigans ensue.A.K.A: a lonely Keith finds a reason to smile.





	1. new kid on the block

Keith Kogane is about to lose it.

The Tron Nightclub where the twenty-two year old works is hectic, more so than usual, because Fridays are always the busiest; the populace ranges from college students celebrating the start of summer vacation, to groups of friends reconnecting, and to people simply wanting to get hammered in the hopes that they'll forget whatever problems might be burdening them with upbeat techno music and obnoxious dancing.

The club opens in the evenings and its pellucid doors welcome all who stumble upon it, luring in individuals with neon flashing lights, showy alcohol promotions, and heavy bass. This evening, Keith was working from 6 P.M. until closing time.

Of course, most clubs in California usually closed by 2 in the morning, but Tron Nightclub was different; last call was now at 4 A.M., but that was thanks to the owner Coran. He'd proposed a legislation a couple months ago to a senator, asking if they'd allow the club to decide how late it was open on Fridays and Saturdays. It was surprisingly accepted. 

Consequently, these swamped nights are the most stressful for Keith.

He labors behind the bar, making drink after drink, taking request after request, and slogging around on only a few hours of sleep (courtesy of his messed up circadian rhythm).

Usually Shiro—his manager and close friend—would be here to help, but he'd texted Keith earlier this morning informing him that he couldn't make it into work because he caught some sort of summer flu. Shiro was amazing at making the most elaborate drinks.

For Keith, the easiest orders are almost always the Martinis, drinks usually served in a chilled cocktail glass, yet he prefers to serve them old-fashioned on the rocks. They're shaken or stirred in a cocktail shaker, and then strained.

It's really not that hard; which is nice, because that's pretty much the only orders Keith's been getting.

Even so, without an extra pair of hands to help him, the never-ending flow of people approaching the counter seems to multiply as the night wears on. Keith finds himself becoming overwhelmed with the amount of orders and flirtatious compliments being thrown at him all at once. 

His feet trip over littered solo cups when the occasional waitress forgets to serve people at their tables and he has to do it himself, the glossy floor seesawing and the ceiling coming to life with each flash of the strobe lights. The walls are scattered with nebulous streaks of blinding colors as he serves hundreds of strangers their drinks, having trouble ignoring the neuralgia pounding against the walls of his cranium.

Still, it's not that bad.

Yes, Keith gets annoyed at the constant thrum of music beating in his skull while he's having an exhaustion induced migraine or dealing with the impatient customers that demand free refills.

Yes, he rises and falls at unearthly hours of the day because he finishes shifts in the late hours of the morning.

It does pay well though, because Coran is one of the kindest people Keith has ever met and they're rather close. Still, that benefit comes out to nothing because of rent and bills, which is awful considering he needs to pay off his student loans and tuition despite dropping out of college awhile ago (but that's a whole other story that he would rather _not_ think about right now).

So yeah, it sucks. But it's also good in a strange sort of way.

The music is so thunderous that Keith can feel it drowning out the thrum of his pulse, reverberating throughout his body, deafening. He's encompassed by and tousled between a ton of dancing, wasted partiers, who don't care about his name or lack of a background. 

Of course, there are people who come here for the sole purpose of getting laid or to publicly make out in front of everyone, but the focal point for Keith is just really being able to go headlong in the techno and the sweaty mobs.

There's no judgment here. And that's what he likes.

By the end of the night, Keith can't stomach the thought of making another Manhattan or be bothered with the chore of turning down another person who asks to have sex (because fuck that), and more than ready to leave.

He waits behind the bar until the nightclub empties of its patrons and then begins the usual clean-up with other coworkers; sweeping the dance floor and collecting dirty highball glasses, wiping down the custom stand-up illuminated drink tables and their color changing countertops.

Keith even has to squint his eyes because the array of vibrant ceiling light bands are shining right on his face, and wow, does he want to go home to _sleep forever._

Once all the furnishings are toweled (with the generous help of Coran), Keith goes around with a trash bag and tosses away objects that people have left behind in their drunken wake.

It's always interesting to see what's waiting for him to dispose of; tonight he's gifted with a roll of unopened condoms, jewelry, a wallet holding nothing but a sticky wad of gum, and a tampon taped to the wall by its string, which is more than enough to serve him his daily dose of cringe.

After checking the lit up clock on the wall to be met with the hands pointing out 4:52, Keith decides that it's finally time to go.

He says goodbye to whoever's left and waves at a cheerful Coran, grabs his keys from where he's hid them underneath a vodka bottle, and plows through the front doors.

Summer air strokes Keith's cheeks in a flurry of heat and dryness that always arrives at the beginning of June, sticking to him like a second skin. The smell of balmed soil and freshly cut grass finds his nose, calming, and erases the tension that scrambles for leeway in his blood.

He reaches into his jean's pocket and slips out a pair of fingerless black gloves, sliding them over his hands and clenching both fists until there's that familiar comfort of pleather flush against both palms.

The ride home on his red motorcycle is peaceful, and the breeze that skims the strands of his hair helps to drain any remaining negativity that work has blessed him with. It's still pretty dark, but dawn stirs up a handful of soft colors from their restful gray-scale along the horizon; the morning becomes more lively than the midnight gloom of before, embracing the light wisps of clouds that string themselves across the sky.

Pleasant, warm, quiet.

 

* * *

  

It's twenty minutes past five by the time Keith pulls into the narrow pathway leading up to the stairs of his traditional brick townhouse (or glorified apartment, as Pidge calls it). He pulls his key out of the motorcycle's ignition and slides off its seat, kicking out the brake with a scuffed toe of his red converse, before he just _stops._

On Keith's front porch is a boy.

And that boy is petting his cat, Ruby.

_What the fuck._

Everything comes to a standstill. If Keith had any tranquility before, it flees from him all at once, and a surge of bitterness stokes the fire blazing inside of him. The habitual scowl that he catches himself wearing at least twenty times a day crawls onto his face as he weighs his options; its either confrontation or calling the cops.

Considering how nice the latter sounded right about now, Keith is surprised when he stalks across the concrete towards the young man to halt at the bottom of the steps.

"What are you doing?"

It takes the stranger a couple long seconds to even look in Keith's general direction, appearing confused, straightening up from where he'd been crouching to run a hand over the scarlet fur on Ruby's back. He almost falls and has to hold onto the stair's railing for support.

From where he's standing, Keith can get sort of a good look at him. The guy appears to be a few inches taller than him, a little tall and lanky, but still about his age from the looks of it—around twenty years old.

He also looks to be nicely tanned, but then again, it's pitch black outside and Keith can't see shit except for the boy's clothes; he's proudly sporting torn denim jeans with a pair of blue high tops and a rumpled black shirt. The words _Born This Way_ are printed in blocky letters across the front of the fabric, accompanied by a picture of Lady Gaga in the center.

It takes every last cell in Keith's body not to raise an eyebrow. 

Once he realizes that Keith is indeed talking to him, and not some invisible phantom, a wobbly smirk plasters itself across his lips. "Why, can't you see I'm petting this beauty right here?"

"Get off my property."

Mystery man doesn't move an inch. Instead, he acts as if Keith hadn't just told him to leave. "Your cat..." the stranger murmurs, wobbling a little as he points a finger towards Ruby, who is now stalking away from him. "...I think she's French. Her accent is pretty strong."

Keith would beat this guy's ass and throw him into someone else's lawn. That is, if he wasn't completely _hammered._

Of course it's Keith's luck to have some random drunk on his porch, petting his cat, who, by the way, usually turns up her nose at everything and hisses at everyone.

Of course it would happen after a stressful day at work. Of course it would happen when Keith would want nothing more than to just sleep. 

Things he doesn't have time for: this shit.

Keith scowls, and pinches the bridge of his nose in an attempt to ward off the incoming anger threatening to block his sinuses. He has to take a few breaths to recollect himself, count to ten; just as his therapist had taught him years ago.

"Where do you live?" Keith asks.

The brunet blinks a second, before the grin that was already on his face grows even wider. "Wow. I'm flattered, but you should really take me out to dinner first."

Holy shit. Keith is actually going to snap. He's going to go to jail for beating a man senseless. Where's a guillotine when you need one?  "That's not an answer."

There's a pause and then a shrug. "Across the street. Got here yesterday. Th'name is Lance," he slurs, winking, although it looks more like a twitch. Keith stills.

Was this one of the people that his best friend Pidge was telling him about a couple days ago? Keith can remember her words, explaining to him that she'd seen a moving truck and lots of boxes on the lawn parallel from his.

So this guy _had_ to be one of the people who rented the townhouse right across from Keith's own.

This goon was his new neighbor. Unbelievable.

Keith runs a hand through the unruly mess of hair on top of his head, strenuously breathing through his nostrils. _Relax._ "Then go home."

"I can't."

"Why?!"

"I don't have the keys to get in. Hunk's got those, and he's not here right now," the taller boy says. "Duh."

At least that's what Keith thinks he says, because it's sort of hard to make out his exact words. He's slurring way too much.

Keith cradles his forehead in a gloved hand and swallows, biting back acidic insults that burn as they retreat down into his throat.

Okay, so he could totally just walk inside right now. Leave this Lance person out here, along with the aneurism stirring up behind his brows, and go straight to bed.

Easy.

But there's some voice in his mind telling him not to, because this dude is drunk and defenseless and might manage to kill himself overnight with how wasted he is.

Fuck these decent human morals. Fuck this stupid conscience. 

When Keith is knocked out of his thoughts by the guy nearly falling down the fucking steps, he grinds his teeth together, and shakes his head.

And then both feet are making their way up the porch to steady what's-his-face.

“I can't believe I'm doing this." Keith wraps a firm arm around Lance's back, slings Lance's arm around his neck before hiking the drunk up to get a better grip. He leans Lance against his side, and Keith sways before almost falling with him. 

They haven't even started walking when it's too late for either of them to react properly, because without warning, Lance is expelling what appears to be a mixture of whiskey and vodka all over the front of Keith's shirt.

"Jesus fuck!" With the reflexes of a ninja, Keith tilts the boy forward, and watches powerlessly as Lance wildly heaves over the concrete steps.

Ruby observes from below in the grass, flicking her tail while giving Keith the most scornful stare he's ever seen.

The smell is _really fucking disgusting._

It takes what seems like the longest thirty seconds of Keith's entire life for Lance to stop gagging and actually pull himself together enough to support half his own weight.

And then it takes what seems like hours for Keith to find his apartment keys, of which had decided to fall into the deepest confines of his pants pocket, and unlock the front door; it's dark but Keith can't be bothered to fondle the wall for a light switch, so he treads on and tries to avoid tripping over Ruby when she pads in before them.

That's when Keith realizes that yeah, Lance might be skinny, but hell, he's kinda heavy too. Holding him up is making his arm burn with the fire of a thousand suns, and he almost finds himself wishing he would've ended up leaving him outside.

About halfway through their newsworthy trip, Lance apparently finds the strength to speak, and really deems it necessary to throw in some trivial commentary.

"The floor plan is awful. Who designed this? And why is everything so bare, do you ever decorate? Woah, what the hell is that stain? Looks like ketchup. Or maybe barbecue sauce? My buddy Hunk knows his way around the kitchen, so he would probably know exactly what that is just by looki—" 

"Shut up," Keith hisses, hitching Lance higher against him once he feels him losing his balance. "If you throw up again, I will seriously kill you. You're lucky I'm even doing this."

Lance puffs his cheeks out and awkwardly shifts to look at Keith in the face, painfully elbowing him in the ribs in the process. He mutters something, probably a retort, but it comes out as an unintelligible scramble of words that catch on his tongue.

"I can't even understand you with all that slurring."

Lance gasps dramatically, an expression of offense crossing his features. "It’s not called slurring, mullet. It’s called speaking in cursive and it’s fucking _magnificent_."

Once the word 'mullet' is out in the open, Keith is seriously about to rip this neighbor a new one, but doesn't oblige to that fantasy because the couch is right across the room, illuminated by white moonlight shining through the windows.

Also because Lance is slipping down towards the carpet.

So he starts lugging the tall man-child like a fucking snow dog mushing a sled with a purpose. He'll be damned if he has to pick an unconscious stranger up off his floor.

When the tatty, maroon sofa is right in front of them, Lance spends no time in collapsing onto its lumpy cushions, arms flailing, with a muffled wheeze. Keith stares, unamused, as Lance squashes his cheek against the armrest and groans into the upholstery before passing out in the span of ten seconds, unconscious. His soft snores fill the small living room, which sort of echoes off the unembellished walls, and Keith can only shake his head.

Waking up was going to be interesting.

He stands there for almost a whole minute, staring at Lance spread out on his couch, a little unsure of what to do next before realizing that it's probably almost six now so he should really stop being a creep and go get some sleep while he can.

With a heavy sigh and a sudden bout of exhaustion that raps against both temples, Keith saunters to the doorway of his room and kicks off his shoes with the grace of a newborn fawn, stumbling and nearly cracking his nose on the threshold in the process.

Elegant as always.

He doesn't even bother changing into new clothes or washing up; he's way too comatose right now, instead opting to peel off his vomit-covered shirt after smelling it with a gag (definitely whiskey and vodka) and tosses it in a random direction before making the trek to bed. It's a total miracle he doesn't trip over the minefield of his bedroom floor on the way, because Lord knows he hasn't cleaned it in months.

Once Keith safely climbs into bed in one piece, he pulls the dark blue comforter up to his shoulders, suddenly very conscious of the uncomfortable tugging of the jeans he's still wearing, and lays his head down on his pillow with a grumble.

Except, it's not a pillow at all, told by the unmistakable feeling of his skull flush against very flat mattress. Damn.

It's probably on the floor somewhere, because he tosses and turns in the night and almost always wakes up to see the pillow halfway across the room. How does it get there exactly? Fuck if Keith knows.

The only thing he's aware of at this point in time is that it's _way_ too late for this shit, so he just flips onto his side and tries to deal with the repugnant sensation of springs digging into his right cheek.

Until fifteen solid minutes pass.

Not that it matters. Keith has long accepted his fate of an ill nights rest, and it's Saturday now, his day off, so he doesn't have to do anything. Besides do the laundry.

Keith silently curses Lance for not being able to hold back his own vomit and especially for lacking the decency to upchuck on himself. Yeah, that happened. Lance had thrown up on his shirt and now it needs to be scrubbed. To be fair, it was plain, a little worn, and he only really wore it because it glowed under the nightclub's black lights, but still.

The bartender doesn't even know why Lance had gone home alone in the first place; if he was telling the truth and did indeed have a friend named...what was it, Hank? Wouldn't they have walked back to the apartment together?

Guess he'll find out.

Now, Keith understands that being a cynical, sad excuse for a person is his true calling, but he honestly can’t help how his mind jumps from loathing Lance and his weak stomach to visualize what kind of awkward conversation will be waiting for him tomorrow morning (or in the next few hours, really, because it's nearly six now). It's really bothering him.

The fact that he has a complete stranger in his apartment right now who could possibly be a murderer and kill him while he's sleeping is making Keith a little restless. There's so many things that could take place.

Keith huffs and closes his eyes, urges his brain to shut up with all the idiotic ruckus, steadies his breathing, and relaxes.

He falls asleep watching the vivid colors of a sunrise bloom to life outside his window.

 

* * *

  

It's almost ten o'clock when Keith's body makes the stupid decision to wake up.

He slowly blinks open his eyes and immediately strains to see against the incandescent block of yellow light that the sun has oh-so-kindly settled across his face.

His room is swathed in the celestial glow of morning, sections of the muted gray walls appearing almost white as they're dappled with aureate smudges of luster, and Keith can watch small dust particles dance in a sunbeam that's reflected onto the floor.

The entire space is practically illuminated now, and from Keith's tangled cocoon of bedsheets, he can clearly make out his surroundings; it's impossible to ignore the monstrosity it is.

Piles of dirty laundry are concentrated in the center of the room, with untouched astronomy textbooks in a corner and a dusty radio on a nightstand in the other. He has a silver shelf on one wall holding an unorganized stack of CD's and an additional shelf with a dying plant. There's an old poster of _The Beatles_ taped by its four corners on another wall, right next to his closet, which is full of the random things he shoves in there when Shiro scolds him for being so messy; it really adds to the spectacle of clothes dangling halfway off their hangers. To finish it off, a couple empty bottles of water are scattered on his dresser, and sure, there may be a muddy pair of black boots sitting in a drawer somewhere, but that's not important.

It's more comfy for him this way. More homy.

Not perfect or spotless or elaborate like the orphanages he lived in for 18 years.

Ten minutes have passed by the time Keith is out of his sleep-induced haze to an extent, and with each second the boy's awake, the regular aches and pains that had been dulled by sleep are once again sparking to life as he's thrusted back into reality.

It feels like every muscle in his body is screaming at him, complaining about needing more rest to do their jobs and scolding him by making sure to throb in the most unpleasant way possible. His head is pounding like crazy and it's definitely not helped by the knot at the base of his neck (maybe he really should have looked for his pillow, fuck) or the pangs in his stomach, because Keith apparently sucks at being a normal human being and forgets to eat way too often.

Getting about three hours of sleep after working a hazardous shift is something Keith would not wish on his worst enemy.

He makes a face of distaste, stretches his stiff legs under the comforter that's currently twisted around his limbs—the inelastic scratch of skinny jeans comes back to him through the fog melding his brain and he groans.

He's seriously sweating bullets right now through the twill fabric, but that's to be expected because it's summer in California and the weather has been hanging around a dry 105 degrees Fahrenheit as of late. All he wants right now is a slice of toast and to get out of these moist pants.

With more effort than it'd normally take, Keith shifts upright with a grunt. He leans his spine against the wood of the bed's headboard and removes the black fingerless gloves he notices he's slept in, plopping them to the side. He just now becomes cognizant of Ruby snoozing at the very end of the bed, curled up into a poofy ball of red fur. 

The thing with Ruby is that she craves your love and attention, but prefers to get it on her own terms instead of yours. If you go to her instead of letting her come to you, chances are you'll end up with a bunch of scratches and many regrets.

Keith learned pretty quickly after disturbing her while she was sleeping once; as it turns out, trying to get things done with bandages wrapped around all your fingers is extremely difficult. 

Which is why he doesn't know how exactly Lance managed to make friends with her so easily.

Wait. 

Lance? 

His eyes settle on the door across the room. And that's when Keith remembers.

_Shit._

He's stuck in place and suddenly feeling really fucking stupid because he's at a loss of what to do next.

Is Lance still there? Maybe he left already? Nah, scratch that, it's not Keith's luck for a situation to go so easily. Keith pinches the bridge of his nose between an index finger and thumb, and tries to put a stop to the heavy sensation deep in his core that is making it feel like he swallowed a boulder. He doesn't know why he's so annoyed about this; Lance isn't going to bite his head off. He doesn't seem like the type of guy who'd beat up a person for helping him.

Plus, Keith is at least 99% sure he'd be able to win in a fight against Lance, with all the Taekwondo he's taken and the fact that he was the only black belt in his entire class. He's a martial arts genius. 

In the end, Keith blames the agitation on his lack of social skills and manages to summon the strength to ease off the edge of the bed and stands up. The first thing he does is take the sweaty pants off, and he revels in the tingle of relief which arises from being free of the imprisonment that comes with wearing skinny jeans too long.

The air feels absolutely amazing on his legs, and he gets damn close to having an aneurism when he pulls on another pair that he picks at random from the floor. These ones are jet black and ripped at the knees and thighs, have probably been worn at least seven times without being washed, but Keith can't be bothered to search through his closet.

Forcefully hitching the jeans up because they slip down the crests of his hips, Keith finds that hesitation is the only thing holding him back now. He puffs out a breath of anxious air, and then cards a palm through his thick black hair, fingers catching on the rat-nest of tangles.

Procrastination is coming way too easy to him right now, and he really has to reach deep inside of himself to get his ass moving.

Time to get this show on the road.

In another brief exhale, Keith slips out of his room, and is suddenly grateful that the carpet drowns out the sound of his footfalls. It's not that he wants to sneak up on Lance and startle him or anything; the thought of making a loud, grand entrance just isn't an idea Keith is comfortable with. He likes being quiet. Unnoticed. Attention is something he does not want, and he'll do just about anything to stay out of the spotlight.

The narrow hallway that connects Keith's room to the rest of the apartment is dark, but as Keith continues forward, he can see the entrance to the brightened living room. Gleams of morning light are filtering from the two glass windows that sit parallel to the television, and with every step the maroon couch comes into view; and there, passed out on it's cushions, is Lance.

His face is still smushed into the armrest with his legs hanging off the side. In fact, it looks like he hasn't moved at all since Keith left him there. He's completely prostrated.

Keith lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Okay, so Lance is here, but he's also asleep, which means he can avoid any awkward talk for a while longer. Good. Trying to stay as quiet as humanly possible, Keith goes straight to the kitchen (which is literally right across from the living room thanks to the apartment's open floor plan) and makes a beeline for the fridge.

He's forgotten how the carpet ends and branches off into linoleum flooring here; the bottoms of his sweaty feet start sliding on the smooth surface, which in turn causes him to almost slip and break his fucking neck. The thought of taking a tumble when he already feels like pure, unadulterated shit has the ability to make him physically cringe.

A fresh start to the day, he must add.

Keith spends the next couple minutes searching the fridge for some sort of sustenance to settle his rumbling stomach. When he comes up with a single bottle of mustard, half a gallon of milk, and a fermenting green smoothie Pidge brought the last time she was over, he just decides to stick with a good ol' classic cup of coffee.

Toast _had_ been the original plan, but judging by a short double-check around the kitchen, there's no bread. He really needs to go grocery shopping, holy shit. Coffee for breakfast it is.

Healthy? No. Convenient? Yes.

Keith stalks over to where the coffee maker sits upon the counter (an old gift from Shiro a couple Christmases ago) and pours tap water into the machine. He totally eyeballs the amount of coffee grinds he places into the filter, and is pretty sure it's going to taste like actual sludge, but it's whatever, because giving a crap about the brewing ratio for coffee is irrelevant. A little more aggressive than necessary, Keith shoves the basket into the slot with the handle out and mashes the machine's buttons.

There. Now all he has to do is let the auto-drip mechanism do its job.

Instead of just standing in silence and waiting like he probably would on these types of days, Keith stumbles over to the other side of the kitchen counter where his iPhone is sitting. He's not quite sure what awaits him, considering he hasn't checked it since yesterday afternoon because he'd forgotten to bring it to work with him last night. Does he even want to know? Probably not.

Keith unlocks it, making sure not to slice his finger on the cracked screen currently purifying itself of broken glass, and is immediately bombarded with notification banners appearing at the top of the display. He rolls his eyes and taps the iMessage app with its little red square that reads "36."

Thirty six messages? The hell.

Turns out that most of them are from Pidge, asking him if he wanted to go to some science convention with her next Saturday. She'd also spammed him with the frog emoji at least twenty times. Nice. Keith shoots her a quick 'I don't know, maybe.'

A couple other texts were from Shiro, mainly him just apologizing for not being at work to help. Keith tells him not to worry with the hint of a smile on his face. The last text message is from Verizon telling him almost all of his data is used up. Figures.

"I'm dyinnnngggg."

Keith has never frozen so fast in his entire fucking life.

Nothing could have prepared him for this moment. He gingerly peeks over the counter, and finds that Lance, who was completely unconscious five minutes ago, is pulling himself into a sitting position. Or at least trying to.

"I'm dying,” Lance repeats, groaning. "I'm _actually_ dying."

Keith watches as he attempts to figure out exactly what's going on.

The boy first looks down to study the couch he's on and the Lady Gaga shirt he's wearing that's been wrinkled with sleep. Then he looks up, lidded blue eyes jumping around the living space. He probably realizes it doesn't belong to his new apartment judging by the total confusion that fixates itself on his profile.

And then his gaze lands on Keith.

Keith would laugh at the whole situation if he wasn't utterly _stunned_. He feels like an actual deer in the headlights, like he did something wrong and is just now getting caught for it. Turns out today has become just one huge staring contest.

"Uh."

Right now, despite every single atom in Keith's body is telling him to look away, he can't. Mostly because he's rooted to the spot, but also because he's finally getting a decent look at Lance for the first time.

He's darker than Keith, definitely, skin beautifully bronzed as if he emerged straight from the beaches of Hawaii. He graces an angular jaw and a long face, bordered by short brown tufts of hair that tickle both cheeks and fall against his forehead. 

Honestly, Keith would probably think Lance was attractive.

If he didn't look like complete, utter shit.

For one, Lance's hair is sticking up in every direction, ten times worse than Keith's, which should deserve a reward because that's a feat in itself. Second, he looks super disoriented, squinting, with a puffiness water retention has dutifully granted him that hangs around his cheekbones and temples. The official hangover look can't be complete without the dark violet bags that have made themselves a lovely home under both his eyes.

Ah, the aftermath of a night full of mixed drinks and vodka shots.

As much as Keith would like to stand there and ogle at Lance, he's still stuck in his own skin, and doesn't want to make this more weird than it has to be. Lance doesn't seem to share the same concern though, because he's scrutinizing him, hard, and Keith follows Lance's line of sight that happens to stop on his stomach.

The revelation that comes forth has the ability to make Keith's ears increasingly hot, and he focuses all his willpower on not hightailing it out of there.  

Keith forgot to put on a shirt this morning. 

And truth be told, he's a bit skinny. His hip bones protrude, and although it's in a more defined way than anything else, it ends up negatively emphasizing the way his wrists can be seen jutting through his pale skin. The fact that his arms are perfectly toned and there's an enticing V shape sloping down the front of his pelvis (thanks to taking tons of martial arts classes and boxing) does nothing to stop the onslaught of distress that follows being self-conscious. 

Keith thinks his body is _strange_ in that some places look muscled and relatively decent, while other areas and their sharp bones fabricate the appearance of someone who hasn't eaten in a while. 

It makes him inhibited in ways other things can't. 

The unexpected sound that crams past the quiet and cascades down the dip of Lance's tongue is ridiculous. It's either a grumble full of dread or a declaration of remorse. "Awww man." He heaves out a sigh, and Keith watches him physically contract on the sofa as he sinks into it deeply. The heels of his palms rub circles into his eyes with a tired huff. 

The silence that comes after is so dense that it's palpable, and a lot more uncomfortable than Keith could've imagined, as they both explore the corridors of their minds for anything to say that might ease up the situation.

Lance arrives at a practical conclusion quite fast. His eyes narrow, which must cause him some pain because a hand flies up to cup the side of his head.

"Wait a second..."

"We didn't do anything," Keith interrupts. He knows that waking up in a stranger's apartment—who is completely shirtless—after a night of partying must give off some vibes of past activity. Y'know.

That piece of information soothes the worry lines etched on Lance's face. He eases deeper into the sofa, however possible that is, considering the pillowy cushions were already swallowing him up.

"Yeah," Keith continues. Squares his shoulders. "I just let you crash here."

"Okay, okay, hold on." Lance's countenance crumples into a rueful grimace at the words, an eyebrow arching suspiciously. "What happened last night? More importantly, who are you exactly?" 

Honestly, Keith doesn't really know how Lance is functioning properly when he'd appeared drunk outside of his apartment around three or four hours ago. Sure, Lance looks like he's in a world of pain told by the way he screws up his nose whenever he speaks, swaying. Yeah, he's probably nauseous, but he's not even slurring that much anymore.

They'd both gotten the same amount of sleep and Lance is talking more than he is. With a _hangover_ , nonetheless.

"I don't know all the details before you showed up." Keith averts his gaze to stare at a nonspecific spot on the counter. He busies his hands by picking up his phone, opening the message app and closing it a few times absentmindedly. "I came home to you on my doorstep petting my cat. You were really drunk and apparently couldn't get in your house, so... I let you in."

No reply.

Keith veers his attention from his phone and back up to Lance, who now has a mien of intense focus, the area between his dark eyebrows creased. Seems like he's really trying to remember last night's events. Keith hadn't given him a detailed account by any means, but he doesn't feel like explaining every single aspect. Certainly not the part where Lance referred to him as 'mullet.' Especially that.

"...And you threw up," Keith adds hesitantly. He doesn't bother telling Lance that it was on his shirt.

Lance's eyes hop to meet Keith's. "Really? That explains the nasty taste in my mouth." He screws his face up, which in turn causes him to flinch with a hiss. Bad migraine, Keith guesses. As if confirming the theory, Lance's fingers rise to rub small circles against both his temples, a long dramatic whimper coming from him. "I didn't even drink that much this time!" 

A contemptuous scoff comes from Keith at Lance's whining. "You drank enough to where you can't remember jack shit." 

In all sincerity, providing consolation was not Keith; he isn't meant to be empathetic, thoughtful or solicitous. He just isn't. It's not in his genetic code. Instead, he was wired to be uncaring, tactless, and inconsiderate. Being altruistic is not something he knows; he constantly rejects it. 

At least, that's what Keith originally thought, until he finds himself grabbing a large glass from one of the kitchen cabinets and filling it with tap water. His feet move on their own accord, striding towards Lance before stopping a couple feet in front of him. Keith stiffly holds out the cup of water, arm locked in place. 

Shiro's caring demeanor must be rubbing off on him. Fuck.

It's just that Keith knows exactly how Lance is feeling (wanting to sleep until you die, due to the fact that you drank way too many rounds and your body feels like one giant sack of regret) because he's been there way too many times than he'd like to admit.

One of the main things Keith has learned from those experiences is that a simple glass of water is your best bet for relief. Rehydration is the key after an extended night of drinking. 

To Keith's relief, Lance takes the glass right as its offered. "Oh man, you're a _life saver_." He immediately starts to chug the water, no questions asked, when Keith could've very well poisoned it, not even pausing for breath. Keith gawks at him, a little impressed when Lance consumes every last drop in four seconds flat. 

When he's done, Lance hands the glass back to Keith, sighing. He shuffles and then stands to his feet, wobbles, and manages to catch himself before tipping over. He looks wrecked, but there's a grin that fixates itself on his sharp features. "I owe you one." 

Keith only nods. He has no idea what to say. 

Seriously, there must be a guardian angel looking down on him today, because the lack of a reply doesn't appear to come close in unnerving Lance. He casually takes a couple steps, laces his fingers together and stretches his arms above his head, exposing a tanned midriff. Keith turns his nose up at the small sliver of bare skin, returning his attention to Lance's face.

A fucking heart attack almost seizes Keith in that second when Lance lets out what feels like his hundredth noisy groan of today. 

"Do I look at bad as I feel?" 

Keith doesn't try to put it lightly. "Yeah."

"Shit," Lance fizzles, actually looking upset about it. He visibly pouts. "I'm not even going to bother looking in a mirror until I get a face mask on."

"A face mask?" 

"What? I gotta always look my best for the ladies. Even natural beauty like _this_ ," Lance gestures to his entire body with a wave of his hand, "needs to be taken care of." 

Keith exhales a doubtful breath, but even he has to admit that the remnants of a frown have been tugged away from his lips. In fact, a lot of the looming tension from before has dissolved from his chest; the abrupt serenity comes across as oddly unfamiliar after being snappy for the past couple of nights.

Going back to the whole 'beauty' thing, Keith isn't sure if Lance is kidding or not, but he does seem like a high-maintenance guy, and it makes sense. The idea of him wearing a face mask conjures a stupid mental image though. 

"Are you joking?" Keith asks derisively, but it lacks a real bite. Exhaustion is deciding to bitch slap him upside the head again.

"Nope," Lance chimes. "Everything you see I owe to mayonnaise.”

Keith doesn't understand what he means by that, because mayo is a condiment and not beauty related, but it seems like something Pidge would say. Lance continues walking, and then Keith realizes he's going to the front door. He's still stumbling, but there's the impression that the boy has managed to sober up for the most part.

"I need a Tylenol _immediately_. Suplex me to the nearest pharmacy and call it a day." 

Keith rolls his eyes before shooting Lance a questioning glance. "You think you walk across the street?" 

A nod. "Yep! My buddy Hunk is probably wondering where I am. I left my phone at the apartment before we went off to the bar, so I haven't been able to text him. Poor guy." Guess that makes the two of them.

"Alright." 

"If you hear me scream, just know that it’s probably ducks."

"What?"

Lance just shrugs with a smirk on his face. "Well, it's been real nice... Uh.." He seems to stew for a minute before tossing a sketchy look over his shoulder at Keith, who still hasn't moved from his place near the couch. "Your name...?" 

It hits Keith then. He hasn't told Lance anything about him, at all. Suddenly tense because he remembers he's still shirtless, in front of a stranger no less, Keith's reluctance to answer is obvious.

"Keith," he deadpans. 

Lance brightens up at that, but it looks like it takes a lot of effort. Hangover. Right. "Okay, Keith." He grabs the doorknob and twists it, opens the door a crack. "Thanks for not killing me. I'll pay you back one day. Maybe I'll even grace your existence with some sick hula-hooping tricks." 

Keith snorts, crossing his arms. The empty glass he's forgotten is in his hand bumps against his elbow. "I'll be looking forward to that," he huffs in all his sarcastic glory. 

The door squeaks on its hinges as its opened wider, and Lance passes through. He's just about to close it behind him when he stops in his tracks, thinking, before spinning on a heel to stare back at Keith with a shit-eating grin on his face. 

"Sorry about your shirt, mullet. Tell kitty I said hi!" 

Keith almost has to pick his jaw up from the floor, and Lance snickers before slamming the door. 

_That fucker._

 

* * *

 

It's simple.

Keith doesn't expect a lot of things.

And that's that.

Doesn't expect gifts for his birthday, doesn't expect to have friends, doesn't expect his life to settle down for more than five seconds. He resigns himself to nothing, and accepts it. 

So he wasn't expecting to hear a knock on his front door later that evening.

He definitely was not expecting to actually have the willpower to get up and answer it.

Most of all, Keith really really _really_ wasn't expecting to see Lance again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a wild ride. Congratulations if you actually made it to the end!
> 
> Well, not really the end. I'm planning on making this a fic with multiple chapters. How many chapters, you may ask? I have no idea lmao. I guess I'll see as time goes on.
> 
> This is based off a writing prompt (although I think it involved a dog instead of a cat?) but I changed it up a bit. As a result, this whole thing happened.
> 
> I'm not sure if it's any good, but I hope y'all like it anyways. I have some ideas for the next chapter, so I'll get to writing it as soon as I can. Don't worry, Hunk and Pidge will be introduced then, because they need love too.
> 
> Feedback would be awesome. Thanks for reading!


	2. brownies and pizza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the two dorks meet again and Keith's gay ass doesn't get a number.

After only thirty minutes of Lance's departure, Keith is bathing in the kick of caffeine from two cups of coffee.

Following a five hour long marathon of watching The World's Most Extreme on Animal Planet, feeding Ruby and cleaning her litterbox, and straightening up his room a bit out of boredom (halle-fucking-lujah), he eventually crashes in bed. It’s normal for him; with the copious amount of coffee comes the delay and buildup of sleeping hormones, so Keith feels wrecked in a sudden rush when the caffeine wears off. He’s way too familiar with the feeling.

Keith wakes up around 4 in the afternoon with the duvet tangled around his waist. He withdraws a single hand from the folds of his blanket and drowsily massages it against both eyes, rubbing large circles at the hefty pressure that pounds behind his eyelids. At the same moment, his stomach unleashes a grumble that sounds like Satan himself yodeling from purgatory or some demonic sort of shit. He's starving.

When Keith blinks, he finds that the last rays of the late afternoon sun are slanting through the bedroom window in brazen yellow ribbons. Although they're bright, it's okay, because the sun has decided not to blind him this time around.

He shifts from his side onto his back, in a death-like haze that for five whole seconds his brain doesn't even register his surroundings; when it does, the first thing that comes to mind is that it's sweltering. He’s sweating like crazy and his hairline feels damp.

The second thing that manages to reach past the fog meddling his consciousness is the unmistakable, cursed sound of someone running in flip flops, and then knuckles rapping on vinyl.

At first, he doesn't move; then the knocks come around a second time, more insistent. But it doesn’t sound as aggressive as it would be if it was one of the telemarketers so deducated to sell him their dumb products. Still, the last thing Keith wants to do is waste his already low amount of energy by getting up to answer the door.

Keith groans, snatching his pillow and covering his head with it, curling the ends so the fabric is encompassing both his ears. "Go away," he calls, bitter, but too tired to care. A fissure places itself between his dark brows.

What follows is almost a whole twelve seconds of quiet, and Keith is nearly convinced it been a lucid dream of some sort. He decompresses, slowly peeling the pillow away from his head, and even catches himself dozing.

Until there's more knocking.

"What the _fuck_ ," Keith mutters under his breath, a long chain of swears bubbling from his lips as he tosses the pillow to the side and throws his legs over the side of the bed, clambering to his feet.

More than just a little disoriented, he has to steady himself after by placing a palm firmly against the wall. In doing so, his eyes meet a full mug of coffee on the nightstand beside him; he never even drank the third cup, and it has formed a film over the surface of the muddy liquid over the past couple hours. Gross.

Since this morning, he'd changed into a ratty Nirvana t-shirt and a pair of baggy gray sweatpants, but is suddenly regretting it because it’s way too hot for these type of clothes. The summer sun beats upon his back relentlessly, forcing beads of sweat down his forehead, and he drags an exasperated hand down his slick face. He wonders when 'no' became his signature emotion.

Jesus, it’s too hot to do anything.

The knocking starts up again, and its successful in giving Keith a fucking heart attack. At this point, he’s fully prepared to rip whoever is out on his doorstep a new one. “I'm coming!” he hisses, irritated. There's a hitch in his gait as he stumbles his way out of his room and down the hall. He nearly trips over Ruby who is busy finishing up her dry food in the kitchen, catching himself from cracking his head on the tiled floor at the last second.

By the time Keith makes it to the front door, he's bristling, and more than a little frustrated. His temper is aflame, and its prickling heat doesn’t make it any better. The moment his hand meets the knob, he turns it, and forcefully throws the door open. The scowl on his face is dreadful.

And then he freezes, any insolent remarks he was going to make sticking painfully to the back of his throat.

It's not a telemarketer like he'd been expecting to see. And yeah, quite frankly, he wasn't ready to come face-to-face with Lance standing on his porch.

Lance startles for a split second at the door aggressively swinging open, but then becomes bright once Keith comes into view, his mouth taking on a cheeky grin. It appears that has Lance changed too; he’s wearing a blue checkered flannel with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, which is left open over a fresh white t-shirt, accompanied by chino shorts and a pair of old black flip flops. His long limbs are straight but not rigid, and his posture is almost perfect. Keith is instantly drawn to the honey-brown color of his skin.

The taller boy looks ten times better than he did this morning.

Keith opens his mouth to say something, anger placed on pause, but no words make their descent. The brilliance of Lance’s smirk has sliced apart any coherent sentences that were busy forming on Keith's tongue; they're scattered, thrown about as random consonants and vowels. He can physically feel himself shrinking.

It seems Lance has no trouble automatically filling the quiet between them with bold enthusiasm.

“Finally! I’m dying out here. This weather is _insane_." 

“What?” The word comes out a lot more caustic and sour than Keith means for it to.

Lance’s expression cools into something that borders on the edge of mocking or roguish as he places a hand on his cocked hip. His blue eyes are lively, the sun’s rays highlighting their ultramarine speckles. “What? In a bad mood, Mullet?”

That’s enough to kickstart Keith. He tries to scoff, but it just comes out as a really unattractive noise. “Don't call me that.”

“Mullet.”

“Don’t start with me.”

“Woah, someone needs a chill pill." 

Keith glares at Lance, jaw set. “I’m calm.”

Lance shrugs, “You don't look calm to me.”

“Shut it,” Keith snaps, running a hand through the roots of his hair out of habit. He feels at least five cowlicks and a shit ton of tangles; he can't imagine what he must look like right now. An overheated piece of trash, probably. 

“At least you're dressed this time," Lance mumbles, much to Keith's chagrin. 

The glower Keith gives him at that moment must be terrifying, because Lance almost immediately backtracks. “I mean, it's not a big deal.” He screws up his face defensively. “Just saying!”

“I didn't ask for your input last time I checked.”

The brunet sighs, shaking his head. “I came here to have a good time and I'm honestly feeling so attacked right now.”

Keith grits his teeth and crosses his arms. He’s been doing that a lot lately. Stress and whatnot. “What do you want?”

“I _could_ go for a bagel with cream cheese right about now.”

Keith starts to close the door.

“Wait!” Lance wedges his hand in the gap between the door and the threshold, preventing it from closing all the way. Keith is almost tempted to slam it shut on his fingers. “I'm kidding, I’m kidding! Jeez. I just wanted to give you this.”

Before Keith can say anything, a warm paper plate covered in aluminum foil is being shoved into his hands. He never noticed Lance had been holding it this entire time. 

“Brownies,” Lance pipes up, smug.

“Huh?”

“Y’know, like, double fudge?”

“Oh, right. Yeah.” Keith nods. 

There's a moment or two where neither of them say anything, until Lance clears his throat. He scratches the nape of his neck awkwardly. “Think of it like an apology for this morning. So, uh, thanks... I guess?” 

It's not the best acknowledgement, and it seems super forced; Keith gets the idea that someone sent him over. Still, Keith isn't good at these types of things either (he's a lot worse, actually) and the fact that this has never happened to him in his entire life throws him through a loop. No one has really ever thanked him for anything.

Well, not like this. It's fucking weird to say the least.

“It...It's okay. Um.” Keith isn't sure if it's inappropriate to peek at a gift while the person who gave it to you is standing right there, but he takes a chance and does it anyway. Lifting a corner of the foil, the brownies come into view, and he's decently taken aback; they look and smell damn amazing. “You made these?” 

“Nah. Hunk did.”

The name is familiar, and then Keith recognizes it as the friend Lance had brought up that lives with him and apparently cooks. It seems so obvious now that he feels stupid for assuming Lance was the one who made them.

Keith forcefully exhales through his mouth, rolling his mauve eyes. “Why am I not surprised? Tell Hunk I said thanks.”

Lance’s countenance flattens. He looks scandalized. “Hey! What's that supposed to mean?” He crosses his arms sternly, a pouty frown upon his lips. It doesn’t flatter him. 

“Nothing,” Keith mutters, and just when he thinks Lance is about to pester him for an answer, a phone buzzes. With a petulant look on his face, Lance digs into his back pocket and whips out an iPhone. He stares at the home screen for about a millisecond before letting out a puff of what Keith assumes to be anxious air. “Shit.”

Keith arches a brow. 

“I'm late for work. Gotta blast!” And with that, Lance is tearing down Keith’s porch steps and across the grass, somehow managing to not trip in his flip flops like any normal human being ever. “Hasta la later, Mullet!”

With a sigh, Keith can only shake his head and retreat back into the house with a bit of a glare on his face.  _Idiot_.

He sets the plate on his kitchen counter and hovers a second, before reaching under the tinfoil and grabbing a dense, square chunk of brownie. Keith inspects it, trying to find out if it's been tampered with, because as much as his neighbors seem normal, they could be very well be serial killers. When it appears to be decently normal after a few rotations, he shrugs, and takes a bite.

It's fucking delicious.

* * *

 

Monday arrives faster than Keith would like it to. 

On Sunday, Pidge had visited to ask Keith about the science convention yet again; she had said things that sounded like awe-inspiring gibberish to Keith, sharing with him all the different experiments she's planning on doing, the diverse results she would gather with her Emission Spectrophotometer.

Keith has learned to do nothing except nod and pretend he understands. Fake it ‘till you make it.

Pidge stayed past dinner, and then complained because Keith had zero food. Literally nothing, because he'd finished up an entire plate of brownies in the span of two hours. The little demon had told him that if he didn't go to the store, she would call Shiro and snitch. Keith had resented the idea at first, because wallowing at home is ten times better than having to deal with people at the grocery store, but is now eternally grateful because he's able eat two slices of buttered toast before leaving for his shift at the nightclub.

He can't help how his mind jumps from thinking about work to the blue-eyed boy across the street. 

And honestly, his confrontation with Lance has been sitting heavily on his mind since Saturday night. 

It's bizarre; Lance is a total stranger, yet Keith feels drawn to him in some sort of way. He decides to pin it on loneliness—all due to Shiro being sick and Pidge busy half of the time—so it’s perfectly normal that he’d be subconsciously looking for someone to talk to (not that he would tell Pidge that, because she would never let him forget it).

As Keith munches on his toast, he can’t help but think back to their conversation; how Lance had inwardly thanked him, how he called him fucking _Mullet_. Keith frowns at the last bombarding thought and swipes breadcrumbs off the thighs of his jeans, tossing his plate into the sink. What follows is the sound of glass breaking. 

He’ll deal with that later. 

After procrastinating long enough, Keith throws on a black v-neck and his usual pair of ripped skinny jeans, and heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth. It's only when he passes himself in the bathroom mirror does he stop, and regrets accidentally catching a glance of himself; a pair of purple bags under his lower lashline are emphasized against the pallor of his pale skin, while his black hair is a total mess that falls into his eyes, and there's that habitual scowl on his face that drags his features down considerably. 

To put it simply, he looks like shit. Fuck. 

Nothing to do about it now.

He snatches his keys and steps out the front door, locks it, says goodbye to Ruby who is currently sprawled out across the lawn, and heads toward his motorcycle. The coral-dusted clouds are busy leaching into the sunset; the big yellow ball in the sky shrouds mellow pinks and oranges into the evening, plunging into the gloomy crevices of the townhouses below.

Bold colors reflect off his motorcycle's glossy red paint and shrouds it in clementine-violet, and Keith can't help but run a hand over its smooth surface once or twice before slipping on his black leather gloves. After admiring his beloved for longer than probably necessary, he jams the keys into the ignition and revs the engine, reveling in its deep purr, and pulls onto the road.

 

* * *

 

By the time Keith arrives at the nightclub, it's already busy, despite being a Monday night. He quickly recognizes Shiro’s black Ford-150 in a parking space, and lets out the ragged breath he didn't know he was holding, choosing a spot a couple rows down. Knowing that he's going to have somebody he's familiar with and actually  _likes_  to help him tonight eases a bit of the stress that weighs heavily upon his shoulders. He's already in a better mood, and finds himself eager to see his older friend. 

The thunderous techno music and sound of partying patrons reaches his ears; the commotion is enough to make him want to bang his head against a concrete wall. He hopes to god that he doesn't get a migraine tonight. He’s never been a fan of drinking. It makes people do too many stupid things while being way too drunk.

Keith sighs the moment he steps over the threshold of the _Staff Only_ door, and it attracts the attention of a couple of his co-workers who are whipping up excellent plates of food. They all smile at him, but it's that obligatory type of greeting you give a familiar to be respectful. He returns the gesture with a weak wave, shuffling through the kitchen and out an elite pair of saloon doors.

The music grows louder as he approaches, the timbres of electro beating off his skull, and it takes all Keith has to put on the neon blue apron that's hanging on the wall next to a rack of tequila. It's not that he's in bad spirits; it's just too late for this, and his eyelids are growing heavy despite him having slept most of the day.

Upon securing the apron around his waist and tying it in a knot, Keith looks up to see Shiro with his back turned to him, making what seems to be a mixed drink for a sultry blonde woman giving him googoo eyes.

Keith can't hear their conversation, although it seems Shiro is trying to do everything he can to bashfully dismiss any seductive compliments the girl is throwing at him. This is where Keith intervenes usually, and takes over making the drink for Shiro just to save his ass.

So, like the good person he is (or would _like_ to be), he does.

Keith walks over to the glowing high-tech bar and moves to take a place beside Shiro. The moment the older man notices him, his face explodes into a smile of relief. One of the fluorescent strip lights casts a bright, pink glow that dances across his chiseled features. “Keith,” Shiro says cheerfully. “I was wondering when you'd get here.”

His genuine grin tugs a hesitant one upon Keith’s face. “Hey,” Keith greets, loud enough to be heard over the cheer of a group making a toast off to their right. He holds out a hand and Shiro gratefully gives him a cocktail shaker full of whatever concoction he’d been making the woman. As if on cue, she glares Keith’s way—for interrupting her flirting, he guesses—and swivels in her chair to talk to a guy next to her. Keith resists the urge to glare in her direction. “You feeling better?”

“Good as new,” Shiro nods, pausing to politely take the order of another customer before turning to face Keith again.

He really does look better; his white bangs fall flawlessly against his forehead, eyes bright, skin full of color. Dimples hug the center of his cheeks, and the pink scar that flanks the bridge of his nose doesn't seem as noticeable today. His bionic arm isn't giving him any trouble, either.

“I’m sorry for not being here to help last Friday,” Shiro eventually adds. “I'm the manager. I should be here.” He's guilty, told by the sudden downward curve his mouth takes. Keith can't hold back a sigh this time, blowing exasperated air through his teeth. He elbows Shiro in the arm, who almost drops the bottle of Jim Beam he's holding.

“I told you already. It's fine. I survived, didn't I?” Keith asserts, uncapping the silver cocktail shaker and pouring its alcoholic contents into a clean martini glass. He passes it across the color-changing surface of the bar toward the woman from earlier. She takes it without sparing him a single glance.

Shiro seems to lighten up at Keith’s words, and he slides a drunk man an order of Bourbon with a kind expression. “I didn't expect any less.”

The two of them fall into their usual comfortable silence, handing bottles or clean glasses between them when they need something the other has, and throwing unsure glances at each other when the people who are already drunk ask for their seventh shot of the night. Time zips by (albeit slowly) and there's only four more hours left of Keith’s shift the next time he steals a glance at the luminescent clock on the wall.

He works diligently, moreso with Shiro comfortably to his left. However, when a girl asks him for a drink, and his eyes lock with her shockingly blue ones, he's almost immediately reminded of Lance.

And it's unsettling as hell.

His mind jumps to Lance’s egocentric pride, his stupid desire for face masks, his dumb ass face. And Keith has questions; why did Lance move in his neighborhood of all places, why did he forget his keys Friday night, where exactly did he work? Did he go to college?

“Keith?”

Keith startles at the sound of his name. He snaps his head up to see Shiro staring at him, a tight smile stuck between amusement and worry on his lips. “You feeling alright?”

“I’m—just—sorry. Just tired,” Keith stumbles, nearly spilling a glass of Rum and Coke he didn't know was in his hand. “Having trouble concentrating.”

Shiro chuckles. “What's on your mind? It must be important if it holds your attention for so long.” He pauses a second then, before throwing Keith a playful glance that includes his eyes being narrowed skeptically. “Do I even want to know?”

Keith wants to shrivel up and die. He instead opts to hand the drink he has made to the girl from before who looks impatient.

“It's nothing,” Keith mutters, keeping his eyes trained on the surface of the countertop. There's a spill he’s itching to clean up.

“Is it a boy?”

If Keith’s sudden silence hadn't been a confirmation to the question already, the way his body suddenly tenses up definitely is. How Shiro had guessed so easily, he has no fucking idea. 

The only thing he knows is that he definitely does _not_ want to see the expression that must be on Shiro’s face right now.

“It's a boy,” Shiro confirms aloud, and Keith winces as he practically hears the gigantic smile in the other’s voice. “Who is it?” the man questions, taking on the task of collecting empty beer bottles that sit on the counter to throw them away.

Keith could, of course, tell Shiro. It's not like he doesn't trust him. In fact, Keith would trust Shiro with anything. They confide in each other. He's trusted Shiro enough to tell him about his sexuality a couple years back, and that was a giant milestone for them. Hell, it's probably helped in bringing them closer. Their friendship is extremely strong.

Especially since Shiro got back from the war.

Especially when he came back without an _arm_.

It's just that telling him about a stranger would feel weird, like he's not supposed to without permission, and he'd rather not acknowledge these thoughts. Unsurprisingly, Keith isn't one for accepting these kinds of things. He's the kind of person that would rather hide than face reality.

“It's not a boy,” Keith immediately refuses. It would actually be convincing if it weren't for the fact that he absolutely sucks at lying.

Shiro refuses to give up the subject. “You sure?” The man asks teasingly, tossing a bottle into a bag he has at his feet. Keith throws him a half-hearted glare. It wavers.

Frankly, there's no ignoring Shiro. The tender smile he's always wearing gets to people, and he's just the type of person you find it easy to confide in. Keith gives up.

“Fine.”

Shiro can’t stifle his soft laughter, but makes sure to set a reassuring hand on Keith’s shoulder. It's as if he's saying _‘you don't have to tell me if you don't want to’_ just through a single touch. Keith swats him away and turns to fiddle with a highball glass.

“...His name is Lance,” Keith hesitantly starts. He rolls his tongue in his cheek, and feels some sort of heat clip the top of his ears. How does he say this without sounding like a creep? “..And he stayed at my apartment Friday night..Er, morning, actually, because I'd just gotten off work. So yeah.”

When Keith dares to look back over at Shiro, the man has stopped in his tracks, eyebrows raised in disbelief. He seems unsure of whether he should beat around the bush or just come straight out with what he wants to say. He even looks a little embarrassed, and it's obvious in the way he treads slowly over his next set of words.

“Were you safe?”

Keith full on _chokes_ on his fucking spit. If he wasn’t already close enough to Shiro to hear him, he would've asked him to repeat himself, because what the actual fuck. “W-What?! No! We didn't do anything like that!”

No, this is not happening. Not here. Not now. Not ever. Nope. Keith feels his face flush as his brain lurches over the blatant implication behind Shiro’s question. It would be a miracle if he was able to curl up on the floor and disappear into the tile right about now.

“He just—” Keith knows he's about to ramble, and the breath he takes to compose himself does nothing. “He was just drunk, a-and so I let him in because I didn't want him to get himself killed, and he went home in the morning, and then it turns out he’s my new neighbor so he came back over on Saturday and gave me brownies to apologize—”

“Keith.” Shiro is suddenly placing a hand on Keith’s shoulder again. He's grinning, yet it's not berating or wicked like something Pidge would offer in this situation. It’s soft and understanding, if not a little humorous. “It’s okay. I understand.”

If Keith wasn't so mortified, he would have jostled Shiro on the arm. He can't speak.

With what seems to be a dramatic sigh of relief, Shiro goes back to collecting bottles. Luckily, he doesn't dwell on the past topic. “So he gave you brownies?”

Keith has to simmer down before replying. He clears his throat uneasily. “Y-Yeah. He did.”

“And he's your new neighbor?”

“Yeah.”

A thoughtful expression crosses Shiro’s face. “And you didn't welcome him to the neighborhood with anything?”

That was not what Keith was expecting. “No…?”

“Maybe you should.”

He crinkles up his nose. “Why?”

“Because it's what you do.” Shiro plops the bag full of bottles on the floor with a clink and begins to rinse the cocktail shaker for new orders. “It doesn't matter what it is. Just show him that he’s welcome.”

Keith mumbles, turning his attention to serving a party of eight people after that; taking out bundles of glasses, mixing alcohols together, doing his goddamn job.

 

* * *

 

Pidge asks to come over on Tuesday. Keith forgets to reply to their text.

Not because he doesn't want to, but because he's too busy stressing over what to bring over to Lance's apartment as a welcome gift at one in the afternoon.

Yeah. That's right. Keith Kogane is actually going to do something for someone.

Sadly, he’s going to be face-to-face with what he would consider an extremely strained situation whenever he gets the courage to go across the street. And, unfortunately for him, all he has to give is a ham and cheese sandwich he picked up from the local café yesterday. But he never was one for formality, right?

Shiro had went on by telling him that it didn't matter what he gave Lance, as long as he showed him that he was welcome...so it could work. It's stupid, but still.

Keith tugs on a pair of jeans and searches for the a decent-looking shirt he can find on his floor, and runs his fingers through his hair to separate some of the worst tangles. To look more put together, he grabs a red flannel and ties it around his waist, then slipping on a pair of black Dr. Martens boots.

Fumbling with the styrofoam box that holds the sandwich, Keith lets out a breath as he steps outside his apartment. He scratches Ruby on the head before he goes, whispering to her about how he’ll be back soon, and tries to put on the most stern face he can muster. It feels more like a grimace.

Steps heavy, Keith makes his way to the edge of the street; he looks both ways, and then jogs across, slowing once he gets to Lance’s lawn. The big, cream and taupe-brick townhouse looms in front of him, with its skillfully mowed grass and the small garden patch right next to the steps. Parked in the driveway is a yellow Honda Civic, and a gray Ford Fiesta that definitely looks like it's seen better days with its copious amount of scratches and broken taillight.

For the most part, Lance and Hunk’s apartment appears well-kept (although, they have only been living there for a few days, so it'd be weird if it wasn't.)

Keith tugs on the hem of his shirt to straighten it, rolls his shoulders in one last attempt to rid himself of the tightness solidifying his neck muscles, and walks down the path that runs through the yard until he gets to the porch. Before he can get a chance to second guess whatever the fuck he's doing, he climbs them and raps on the door, steering clear of the peephole.

There’s not a single noise for seven long seconds—which is enough time for Keith to begin doubting his choices and start devising an escape plan—until he can make out the sound of someone waltzing through the house. The latch clicks.

It’s not Lance who’s standing on the other side when the door opens.

Instead, it's a tall boy with rich brown skin and black hair that’s been swept back into a very small bun. He looks a little surprised at first, like he had been expecting to see someone else and not an emo kid on his porch.

Nevertheless, Keith watches the change in expression as the guy’s round face adopts a kind grin, making the apples of his cheeks angelically chubby. A smile suits him, Keith thinks. It warms up his molasses-brown eyes.

This must be Hunk.

Keith doesn't know what to say, so he does what he’s good at; avoiding any sort of contact. He drags his attention to the rucksack slung over Hunk’s shoulder that has an abundance of cords and wires emerging from the main flap. In his other hand is a bulky laptop, and a lanyard full of keys dangle from his forefinger. He must be going somewhere.

“Oh, hi!” Hunk chimes, causing Keith’s gaze to jump back up to meet his face. He shifts a little, tucking the laptop under his arm more firmly. “You must have the wrong house. We didn't order takeaway.” He pauses, before narrowing his eyes in thought. “At least...I don't think we did?”

Keith can already feel the word vomit tumbling up his throat. “Oh, uh. No, I'm not..I’m not a delivery guy. I'm just—” He fumbles for the correct things to say, and tries his best to convey what exactly he's here for without sounding pathetic. Man, Hunk makes him feel small and insignificant as _hell_. “—Here. Lance. I'm here for Lance.”

A noise of realization springs from Hunk's mouth, and then his face lights up. “Oh! Alright! Let me just get him for you real quick.”

Hunk closes the door slightly, turning his head to call into a room. "Lance! Someone is here to see you!"

“Not now!” Comes Lance's voice. The tone of it sounds distressed, caught between anger and panic. That doesn’t help the anxiety wringing his guts into abnormal shapes. It makes it worse, to tell the truth.

Hunk sighs. He throws a bashful look over his shoulder towards Keith. "Sorry. He really gets into his video games." 

"It's alright," Keith reluctantly assures. So Lance likes video games? He wouldn't put it past him.

Just as Hunk opens his mouth to say something else, there's that one sound almost every game makes when your character dies, followed by a long groan of defeat that could only come from a person who got their ass kicked. Hunk twists his head toward the room again to let out an exasperated, "C'mon Lance." 

"Okay, okay. I'm coming," Lance grumbles, footsteps approaching from somewhere on the left. Hunk taps his foot impatiently and opens the door all the way, standing off to the side, giving Keith a full view of their hallway. A nauseous feeling of suspense boils in the pit of his stomach and sticks to the lining there. Wait. No, that's not right. It full on roundhouse kicks him in the midriff.

Lance's voice is closer now. "Who is it?" 

Before Keith can think up the next course of action, Lance is rounding a corner and stops right behind Hunk; his dark hair is bedraggled, and he's wearing blue plaid pajama pants and a Marina and the Diamonds t-shirt. What catches Keith off-guard (besides meeting Hunk so quickly) is the fact that Lance is wearing _glasses_. They're just a simple pair with rectangular black frames, but they look nice.

If Keith is honest, Lance pulls them off _too_  well.

Now, Keith typically doesn't understand social cues, but he knows shock when he sees it. Lance's jaw slightly drops when he notices Keith's prescence, and he has to push the glasses back up the slope of his nose when they slip. Keith does his very best to glue a smile onto his face, but it’s fake as fuck. 

It's at this moment Keith knows he messed up. 'Abort mission' is blaring throughout his entire nervous system.

Hunk doesn't notice this sequence of events. He smiles back at Keith and takes a couple steps down the front porch. "Well, I better get going. I have a project to finish for the science convention this Saturday before I procrastinate too much. See you guys later!" And with that, Hunk unlocks the yellow Honda Civic, slides into the driver's seat, and waves before pulling out of the driveway and disappearing down the road. 

Keith is still rooted to the spot. Who knows how many tension-racked seconds have passed with the two of them just blankly gawking at each other. "Uh. Hi." 

Lance stares owlishly at him. "H-hey." 

If he didn't know any better, Keith would probably be cursing up a storm. He doesn't know when he's gained the courage to hold out the styrofoam box until he's doing it. Deja vu hits him then, and his mind reels back to last Friday when he'd handed Lance a glass of water. He's still stiff. "Here." 

Lance's eyes dart down to the box and back to Keith's face a couple times. He looks unsure, and while Keith is starting to think that this was all a giant mistake, Lance finally reaches out and takes it. Like Keith did that one time, he takes a cautious peek by lifting the lid. Lance quirks a brow out of confusion.

"Welcome..to the neighborhood?" Keith falters, his sentence coming out more like a question than a statement. His cheeks are burning, and he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. Wow. So smooth. It takes a lot of strength for him to keep his eyes locked with Lance's and _not_ want to die.

Lance stands there, unreadable, and Keith feels really fucking dumb. This is awful. Why did he listen to Shiro? He obviously doesn't have the same social expertise as him.

"..Thanks." 

The shift in Lance's countenance is quick; he's smiling crookedly. It's a shocker that Keith can even speak, let alone have his words come out firm and unwavering. "It's nothing." 

The music of whatever video game that had been playing registers in Keith's head during the brief silence that follows, and his gaze moves over Lance's shoulder to a TV screen; the game's ending credits are flashing upon the monitor. Lance perceives this, and his grin grows wider out of pride. "Oh, yeah. That's the new horror game that was just released." 

"Oh."

Keith has no idea what exactly the game is. While people his age may be playing video games on the daily, Keith has never picked up a controller in the twenty-three years of his pitiful existence. This must be blatantly written across his face, because Lance fills him in. 

"It's basically a zombie survival game. Easy peezy."

"Considering the fact you lost less than five minutes ago, I doubt it's that easy." Ah. There's that familiar attitude. 

Lance crosses his arms, nearly dropping the sandwich box. "Hey! I was just warming up! If you saw me play, then you would be amazed by my _flawless_ aim—" Lance breaks off mid-sentence and his eyes settle firmly on Keith, whatever he was about to say lost in the wind. He appears contemplative, and vaguely inhibited.

Keith has to re-evaluate the situation, paranoid that he's done something wrong until Lance finds his voice again. He shrugs. "You..wanna come in and try it out? I mean, if you want to." 

Keith is taken aback. It's embarrassing how he nods his head maybe a bit too slowly, and doesn't even pass his words through a filter before they zip out of his mouth. "Uh, Yeah. Sure." Keith tries to school his expression when Lance waves him inside the hallway with a smirk, and closes the door after them.

God, what is he doing? 

The first thing that hits Keith is the fact that the apartment is lively, despite only recently being moved into. The walls are white like all the townhouses on this street, but they aren't blank like his own; they're cluttered with photographs and video game posters, going as far as the kitchenette. Keith squints at them as he passes, and can make out a few photos of Lance and Hunk together.

In one of them, they look to be at the aquarium, and in another, at a Fourth of July party. The rest of the pictures are just random shots, both of them in different places that Keith doesn't recognize. And in every single one, Lance has an arm resting on Hunk's shoulder, and they have dazzling grins on their faces. They're really close from the looks of it.

As Keith looks toward a photo hanging in a gold picture frame, the center of attention switches from Lance and Hunk to a very young woman. She's posing in a lab coat with two happy cats in her arms, smiling beautifully. Her complexion is a deep brown, lips painted in a swipe of pink lipstick, and her long silver-dyed hair is gathered in an elegant bun on the top of her head. Keith thinks about how maternal she appears, and ponders about who she must be in relation to these boys. 

Of course, the video game posters and their meanings fly right over his head. 

Lance turns a corner and they enter what Keith supposes is the living room. It's bright with the sunlight barreling in through the windowpanes, yet it's not harsh. A medium-sized television sits against one of the walls, connected to it tons of cords. Below, the wires are strategically attached to an Xbox, game controllers at its side, and Keith realizes that this must be the game setup. A worn orange couch is placed in front of it all.

Still playing on the TV are the game's credits, scrolling downwards through hundreds of names. Lance sets the sandwich box onto a coffee table parallel to the sofa, and grabs the two controllers.

"Catch," Lance calls, tossing the other to Keith who catches it single-handedly. He watches Lance flop down on a cushion, and only sits when Lance enthusiastically pats the empty spot next to him. 

Keith hesitantly settles his ass onto the couch (which is very comfortable despite its wear-and-tear, by the way) and Lance clicks a random button on his controller to bring up the game's main screen; an eagle emblem that appears to be holding a knife and a gun in both of its talons appears, and grisly music begins playing. The title reads  _The Decaying 3._

"Alrighty. Do you know which button is which?" Lance asks, tilting his controller towards Keith to give him a better look, despite him holding his own. Four buttons are on the right side, each a different color, labeled with Y, B, A, and X. On the other side looks to be a little joystick and a button in the shape of a plus sign. Keith is fucking clueless. 

"No."

"Right. Okay, so you use the Y button to jump, the B to walk, the A to sprint, and the X to shoot or stab. And you use the joystick over here," Lance points out, "To move in any direction you want. Simple." 

The directions _are_  straightforward. Keith is still a little unsure of what to expect, but who cares? He'll figure it out.

"Got it." Keith looks up from the controller and at Lance, the two of them making eye contact. The taller boy is grinning blindingly at him.

"Sweet. Time to get this show on the road!" 

 

* * *

 

Turns out Keith is a lot better at video games than he originally would've guessed. 

He's killed more zombies than Lance in the past three hours and five arguments, and it's hilarious seeing the look of frustration plant itself on Lance's face when he fails to shoot down the rotting monster that attacks his own character. They both sit on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward, fingers flying on the controllers. It's actually sort of fun.

At first, Keith had sucked. Super bad. The controls felt weird and unnatural, and the split-screen was annoying. But as time wore on, he grew used to the moves and memorized the buttons. He's always prided himself as a fast learner. 

“Are you serious?!” Lance gives a disgruntled gasp when Keith's character swoops in front of his to stab a zombie in the temple with a knife. “That's unfair! You totally stole my kill!"

"There's no such thing as stealing kills."

"That's a lie and you know it." 

Keith isn't convinced, and quirks an eyebrow in Lance's direction disdainfully when he elbows him in the arm. It's all just joking, though. Keith has long felt Lance's carefree nature unravel the knots of tension in his back, and it’s like a gigantic wave of freedom has washed over him. He feels less deadened with Lance than he's felt in awhile. 

Lance groans. "You even got the good character with the nice ass."

Keith stifles a scoff. "Shut up and watch my back. I'm going to clear the exit to this building." Just to spite him, though, Lance moves his character in front of Keith's and starts trying to bat at him with a rifle. You can't kill someone on your own team, but Lance's character wildly swinging it's arms blocks Keith's view from anything. It'd might be funny if Keith wasn't so fixed on obliterating the horde of walkers stumbling towards them. "Hey! Get out of my way!" 

Lance smirks evilly, continuing his antics. "As you can see, a more productive use of my time is revenge." 

"Two can play at that game." Keith narrows his eyes, frowning, and makes his character start swinging back as well. It's pretty fucking ridiculous. Lance starts making faces as he tries to hold back his laughter, which then causes his glasses to fall down to the tip of his nose, and that makes Keith's lips twitch upwards a little. 

"Hold still! I want to shoot you!" Lance crows, slamming his shoulder against Keith. Keith rolls his eyes, but obeys, and keeps his character still. Lance excitedly presses a button and begins unloading clip after clip into the person's virtual chest; it doesn't kill them, although the noises the character makes after getting hit is absolutely _hysterical_. Lance laughs, and Keith just shakes his head. 

Fleetingly, Keith feels content. It’s kind of nerve-racking how easily he's forgotten about everything that’s been putting him through the ringer lately. 

The couch dips all of a sudden, and Keith turns to stare at Lance. He's sitting all the way back now, controller on his lap. “The music is going crazy, there’s arms flying in my face,  zombies are everywhere… what the fuck is happening?” 

"We're supposed to be surviving," Keith says matter-of-factly, which Lance brushes off with a narrowing of his eyes.

"We don't have to do anything," he starts, before sitting forwards again. He gapes at the screen. "Dude, there's a zombie on you!" 

"What?" Keith blurts, swiveling his head towards the screen. Sure enough, a zombie has itself locked around his character's legs, and is feasting on her thigh. Keith slams his thumb down on the X button, but the swinging knife doesn't come close to the dead. His side of the screen starts to go red. "Let go!" 

Out of nowhere, the virtual zombie screeches, and crumples to the ground in a heap. Keith squints, confused, until he tilts the screen's perspective upwards to see Lance's character at least 30 feet away with a gun raised. Physically, he steals a glance at Lance from the side, and finds him staring back at him with a self-satisfied grin. 

"I forgot to tell you," Lance gloats, crossing his arms. "I'm the cool, ninja sharpshooter." 

Keith elbows him. Hard.

* * *

 

It's past five in the evening when Lance pauses the game to go answer a knock at the front door, and comes back balancing two boxes of pizza and a liter of pepsi in an arm. Keith has no fucking idea when he'd ordered them in between their game, and certainly doesn't know how the time has flown by so quickly, but can't bring himself to dwell on these thoughts too long once he realizes how starving he is. 

Lance drops everything on the coffee table that he's pulled to sit in front of them, and disappears into the kitchenette; a moment later, he returns with paper plates and two plastic cups. He plops back on the sofa next to Keith, flipping open the two pizza boxes.

There's one plain cheese pizza (a safe choice, and Keith's favorite because he's "boring" as Pidge would say) while the other seems to have every single topping on earth put on it.

Of course, the tantalizing aroma of gooey cheese and zesty sauce emerges; it's enough to make Keith's mouth water. Lance vocalizes his incoming thoughts with a loving sigh. "I feel like my body is sobbing for cheese and grease right now." 

Keith expresses his derision with a single snort, and decides to make himself useful by reaching forward to grab the paper plates. He hands one to Lance who looks like he's already in heaven and on the verge of flirting with the pizza. "Do you want cheese or...whatever the fuck that one is?" 

Apparantly Lance enjoys making Keith's life more difficult than it has to be. “Can I get uuuhhhhhhhhh boneless pizza?”

"Huh?" 

He tosses Keith an unamused stare. "Do you know _any_ memes?" 

Sure, Keith knows lots of memes. Just definitely not to the extent of Pidge. He gets the feeling that Lance would get along with her. He also gets the feeling that it would be torture for him if they did meet. It'd be ' _annoy Keith to death_ ' every single day. Not happening. 

"Yes?" 

"We'll work on it," Lance sighs, before turning his attention back to the food. He lays the paper plate on his legs and begins pouring soda into their cups. "I'll take three slices of the supreme." 

Keith leans forward and scoops up three slices of the mess of a pizza for Lance, setting it on the plate that sits on his lap, and grabs two slices of cheese for himself. Lance scoots a cup of Pepsi to Keith and takes a sip of his own, before quite literally engulfing the slices that have been served to him. Eager is a grand understatement.

Watching Lance stuff his mouth is _not_ pretty _,_ soKeithtakes a bite of hisown slice. The cheese is warm and stretchy, and tastes amazing paired with the tangy tomato sauce and slightly crispy dough. It feels like forever since he's had a good pizza, and he vows to have it at least once a week after this. 

"Soooo goooood," Lance utters from beside him. Keith swallows, frowning in disapproval at the boy who's shoveling almost an entire slice into his mouth. He's pretty sure Lance isn't even chewing. 

"Slow down," Keith says. He's not in the mood to do the heimlich. Too hungry. He can't remember the last time he ate. "Don't you have any self-control?" 

"Nope,” Lance mumbles around a mouthful of food, his words smothered and ugly. “My self-control around pizza is the fucking family disappointment.”

It's a miracle Keith manages to suppress the sneer that threatens to morph his features. He begins peeling the cheese off his half-eaten slice, and pops it into his mouth. Lance notices, and screws up his face in comedic horror.

“You can kill a man, dice him up, and sell his remains to a bunch of strangers in the black market, but to do that to a piece of pizza is just wrong.”

Keith finishes chewing before speaking. "You're so dramatic." 

"True,” Lance agrees, simulating a shrug of indifference and trying to finish the crust of his pizza in one bite. "Don't act like you don't like it."

Two minutes or so passes where neither of them say anything, content in eating and staring blankly at different corners of the room as they think. Keith is on his fourth slice when Lance shuffles, brings his legs up on the couch, and rests his spine against the armrest facing Keith to get a look at him. “So, how old are you?”

Here come the inevitable questions. Keith takes a swig of his soda to clear his throat of all the oil, and casts his eyes over to Lance who is balancing his cup on his knees. "Twenty-two. You?" 

"Really? I'm twenty-one! What college do you go to?" 

 _That_ takes Keith by surprise. It's not weird, by any means. It's a perfectly reasonable question. He just hadn't been expecting it, or the way the inquiry makes his stomach twist uncomfortably. 

He doesn't want to tell Lance the truth; how he'd majored in astronomy and dropped out after a semester because he had no motivation with Shiro being in the hospital. How he spends his time working his ass off to pay off student loans and then wallows in his apartment. How he struggles to get up every single morning just to get through his day feeling like a regretful piece of shit. 

Lance doesn't wait for an answer. "Wait. Lemme guess." He feigns contemplation, tapping his chin. "San Diego State Univeristy? No. Pepperdine University? Nah. How about San Francisco State University? Hmm..nope." Lance closes his eyes, before opening them again, snapping his cheese-grease covered fingers. "I got it! Stanford!" 

"No," Keith heaves a sigh. Better get it done and over with. "I go to the University of California, here in Los Angeles." He hesitates, murmuring, "Used to, I mean." 

"Seriously?! I do too! And.." Lance stops. It's as if he's just registered Keith's last words.  "Used to?" He parrots.

"Uh," Keith sets his paper plate on the coffee table, suddenly not so hungry anymore. He finds it hard to meet Lance's eyes. "I don't want to talk about it." He's not telling him. He's not having this conversation.

Lance looks puzzled, and Keith doesn't know what he's going to say, if anything; he expects Lance to maybe laugh at him or furrow his brows and call him a baby for not saying anything. But he doesn't. 

Instead, Lance takes his glasses off his face and hooks them onto the hem of his shirt with a blooming grin. The Lance that Keith remembers from last Friday is sitting in front of him now. "That's cool." 

Keith blinks. Lance isn't going to ask him? This annoying guy who can't shut up for two seconds isn't going to actually pester him about it? 

"Let me just tell you," Lance continues, "I love majoring in veterinary medicine. Hands-on learning, y'know? But coming home covered in cat pee is getting old. Hunk will walk around pinching his nose until I can get my clothes into the washer. I'm sick of college, man."

That really eases the rigidity curdling under Keith's skin. It's even somewhat humorous. He tilts his head, and blows away the black strands of hair that fall in his vision. "You want to be a vet?" 

"Yep." 

It makes sense. Lance seems like the type of guy that would fawn over baby kittens and hug dogs on a daily basis. That would also give an explanation as to why he was apt to pet Ruby when drunk. 

Keith relaxes the tense line of his shoulders. He's glad to have the attention removed from him. "How's it going for you?" 

Without warning, Lance leans forward, the cup (which is empty, luckily) falling to the floor. He counts on three long fingers. "First, I have no life besides work and school. Second, I have sold my soul to Beyoncé. Third, I've been eating nothing but garbage. And it's not even good garbage!" 

"Tragic," Keith says sarcastically, resisting the compulsion to shove Lance back into his seat. This guy has no concept of personal space.  

"Yeah. I haven't had Target popcorn in months." Lance throws himself back against the armrest for melodramatic effect, settling his hands on his stomach. He stares up at the white ceiling. "At least I have my good looks." 

"Good looks where?" Keith tauntingly mutters under his breath, which Lance hears. He kicks Keith in the thigh with a foot. 

"You're just jealous of my irresistable charm."

"Yeah, right." 

"At least I actually get girls."

"Jesus, you're annoying."

At that second, Keith's butt buzzes. Well, not his butt. His phone in his back pocket buzzes. Keith pulls it out and unlocks it to see a message from Pidge. 

_**From: Gremlin (5:53 PM)** _

_**Where are you? I'm in your apartment.** _

Keith frowns; it's not that he doesn't want to see Pidge, because that's one of his best friends, but because he's at a loss of how she got in his apartment. Also because he totally forgot she asked him if she could come over today and he totally didn't answer. She's going to have his ass for that. 

"Who's that?" Lance asks. He's back to sitting up.

"A friend," Keith sighs, getting to his feet. His legs are numb from sitting for so long. "I have to go." 

Lance rises too. He looks a little at a loss for words, before he buffs Keith on the arm with a ludic fist. "Today was cool." Then, more boldly, he adds, "We should hang out again sometime."  

It's safe to say that Keith is kind of shocked. It's been a long, long time since Keith last had someone actually reach out to him. There's a massive part of him that wants to run away, say no, because he hates change. He hates being thrown out of orbit. He likes being in control, and knowing what's going to happen and when. Plus, Lance is irritating. The amount of times they fought over the game was dumb. 

Nonetheless, he gives a curt nod. "Sometime." 

Lance leads Keith through the hallway to the front door, and stands on the porch to watch him go. Keith is halfway down the steps before something hits him, and he turns to look back at Lance; the boy who is still in his pajamas with the most jovial simper lifting his features, the boy who basically bought him dinner. "Oh, uh. Thanks for the pizza. I'll pay you back."

Lance dismisses him with a nonchalant flick of his hand. "Nah. It's on me, dude." 

"As if." Keith snorts. He's stubborn, and not afraid to show it. "I get paid this Friday." 

"No, no, no, no, no, nope," Lance interrupts, impossibly fast, a hand sassily placed on his hip. Keith figures he does that a lot. "Hunk will murder me if he finds out I made you pay me. Now get off my lawn before I.." 

Keith waits.

"..Before I do _something_." 

Wow. What a threat. Keith rolls his eyes. "See you," he bids in a deadpan sort of voice. He almost says ' _see you later,"_ but decides against it, because Lance might change his mind. Let's be real: who would want to hang out with someone who is perpetually angry, who struggles daily with the baggage of his past, and has no idea where he's going in life? Not him, that's who.

"Bye, Mullet," Lance returns wickedly, ignoring the glare Keith sends him, before stepping back into the house and closing the door with a click. Keith turns and begins his trek across the street, phone in hand.

He isn't sure what to think when he reaches his own front yard. The first thing he knows is that Lance and him aren't friends. He isn't ready to open up to him, and that's what friends do, right? Lance was just being nice and inviting him in. Being a good neighbor. 

Keith curses everything for being so damn confusing.

He jams his apartment key into the door's lock, and then finds that it's open. Who knows what Pidge might've picked it with, the little bugger.

As Keith shoves it open with an outspread hand, he finds Pidge on his couch, looking up when he steps in. She's in her usual spot; sitting on the armrest, laptop on her outstretched legs, glasses reflecting the glare of the computer screen. She appears to have been typing a paper.

“Hey," Keith greets, making a face as Pidge studies him, her dark amber eyes pausing momentarily on his ruffled shirt and hair. He hates this, because he knows he's going to have to start answering questions as to where he's been when he could be sleeping before having to head off to work. God, she acts just like a mom. (Or, at least, that's how people said mothers reacted when their children came home after curfew or something. He wouldn't know.)

"Where were you?" Pidge asks, completely unamused, scrunching up her nose. "I've been here for 20 minutes." 

Keith really doesn't want to tell her; he would never live it down. "I was at Shiro's place," he lies, crouching towards the floor when Ruby patters up to him. He scratches under her chin, just how she likes it.

Pidge isn't convinced. She stares him down disdainfully through the round spectacles of her glasses, so Keith knows better than to try and lie again. The girl can't be fooled. Her intuitive, and seeing that they've known each other for the past five years, is going to give her an idea of where he was. 

"Fine," Keith mutters in churlish defeat. He chews on the inside of his cheek, and tears his gaze away from Pidge's, forcing himself to look at Ruby. "Remember when you told me about how those people were moving in the townhouse across the street?" he starts, before glancing back up to see Pidge smirking condescendingly. He stops, shooting her one of his sharp glares. "What?" 

"You were over there, weren't you?" she inquires, but it comes out as a full-on statement, because of course she knows. Analyzing Keith's expression of pure unadulterated hatred, Pidge sniggers, and the urge to throw her out the window gets pretty intense.

"Yeah. Whatever." Keith gets to his feet and makes his way over to the couch. He needs a nap, and he needs it now.

Pidge waggles her eyebrows, and nudges him roughly in the shoulder when he slumps onto a cushion beside her. "Keith Kogane? Making new friends? Is this real life?" 

"Fuck off," Keith hisses. The scowl dragging his face down doesn't intimidate Pidge one bit, so he decides to stare down at the iPhone he's clutching instead. From his peripheral, he catches Pidge's gaze dart down to the device, and he just _predicts_ her next course of action. She may have gathered some of his tics and habits over the years, but he's learned to observe hers too.

"Don't." 

When Pidge's eyes narrow in reckless abandon and she lunges for his phone, her laptop slipping from her legs and onto the safety of the couch, Keith ducks away from her small outstretched hands before her evil clutches can succeed in their mission. With a palm on her cheek, he shoves her away. 

"What are you _doing_?" 

"I know you have one of their numbers!" 

Keith tightens his grip on his phone in case she goes to snatch at it again, face burning with undiluted annoyance. What did he ever do to deserve this? "I don't have anyone's number!" 

Pidge doesn't stop her confrontation, instead scrabbling again for his phone, further smushing her face against Keith's hand. "Let me see!" 

"I already told you, I don't have any number!" 

Keith must be an open book, because it only takes one glance from Pidge for her to realize that he's actually telling the truth. She might as well be her own lie-detector test. "Wait, what?" Pidge settles back a little, eyes squinting as she repositions her glasses that have gone crooked during their five second scuffle. "You're kidding." 

Keith exhales. Tries to rid himself of the way his head is pounding. Shit. He has to go to work in an hour. "I'm not."

"So you're telling me that you were over there for—what, four hours—and not once did you ask for a number?"

"Yeah?"

"Wow. Your gay ass is more socially inept than I thought." 

Keith flips her off, which makes her snicker, and bluntly announces that he's got to get ready for work.

As he's switching shirts, he catches his train of thought falling on Lance. When he's brushing his teeth, he thinks about Lance. After he kicks off his boots and replaces them with his converse, Lance is on his mind. 

" _We should hang out again sometime."_

He groans _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. I was originally planning for this chapter to be posted about 5 days ago, but never got around to finishing it. Finally it's done! 
> 
> So, Keith and Lance are beginning to get to know each other. Hunk is a darling who I'm really sad I didn't get to write more of (I will soon, don't worry) and I still need to get some more Pidge in here. 
> 
> Please excuse any spelling errors or mistakes. I hope this will hold you guys over for now. I'm planning on posting the next chapter sometime next month, so look out for that. As always, feedback is appreciated. Thank you so much for reading! :)


	3. what's new?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Keith starts a fight and goes to a science convention. Lance returns a favor. 
> 
>    
> Quick warning: Shiro gets called an ethnic slur (or at least I consider it one.) Please do not take anything seriously. Thank you!

Keith didn't want to fight. Not really. He was exhausted from his messed up sleeping schedule, and he wasn't planning to end his day by tousling on a nightclub floor with some random asshole; but he hadn’t checked his pique before going into work Thursday evening.

It started as an average night with Keith standing beside Shiro, the two of them making drinks, talking to one another as the time wore on. It wasn't a particularly busy shift, which was nice. Keith has had more than enough stress headaches this week. He'd take any break he could get at this point.

Shiro is just handing Keith a martini glass, telling him a story about how a customer threw up on him when he used to work as a waiter at a restaurant, when a man approaches the bar. He’s swaying, which lets Keith know that he's probably been drinking before even coming to the nightclub. Idiot.

The man leans against the counter; he was tall, and had chestnut brown hair, shirt messily opened at the collar. Keith didn't really take the time to get a good look at him. He was too focused on getting this cocktail just right, because he'd be damned if he screwed it up.

At first, the drunk stranger stops in front of Shiro, before he full-on sneers at the taller man with a look of disgust on his features. The neon streaks of distant strobe lights make his eyes glitter with something brash and sour. “What can I get you?” Shiro asks with a smile, seemingly unbothered by the man's death glare.

"I don't need a fuckin' jap to serve me. I want someone else."

It’s a slap to the face.

A group of dancers roar happily as they chug a line of shots, and a woman to Keith's right asks for her drink, but Keith is silent. He whips his head over to look at Shiro; the smile from earlier has evaporated from his face, the customary warmth gone. Keith then twists his head to look back at the man, the fucker who is now trying to call over a bartender that’s all the way at the end of the counter. Keith knows his own expression has become rigid, jaw clamped tight, teeth grinding. Everything hurts as he represses a painful breath.

"Keith.” It's Shiro who speaks. Shiro who should be upset at the man who's being an asshat, but instead has a reassuring hand on the black-haired boy's shoulder. It shouldn't be Keith who needs comforting, for god's sake.  
“Let it go.”

The whole situation is dumb, and Keith knows his face immediately gives his feelings away to anyone who may see him. He's always been an open-book when it comes to his anger, like he's unable to contain even a cent of the fury that rummages for leeway in his chest. The blood in his veins has turned from stone to fire. The words are burning, and they weren't even directed at him. He stares wicked holes in the man's head, and it's almost as if the drunk can feel it, because he turns to hideously scowl at Keith in return. It makes Keith curl his fingers in a fist around the martini glass that he's been holding.

A scoff comes from the brunet's mouth, twisted and acidic. "Didn’t your fucking parents teach you not to stare? What, were you raised in a damn barn? Bet your folks are proud of how you turned out.”

That's all it takes for Keith to lose control. Too fast.

Absolute rage engulfs Keith as he slugs the drunkard across the face with the martini glass, barely managing to avoid the shards that explode in multiple directions, and quite nearly throwing himself over the bar in the process.

He probably should’ve done so anyway, because before he knows it, the man is grabbing him by the apron and pulling him over the beer-covered counter.

Keith falls to the floor with the sound of bottles breaking, and his shoulder clicking uncomfortably. With a grunt, he forces himself upwards. He’s more than well aware of the searing pain settling in his arm socket. Fuck.

He has no time to focus on the overwhelming ache, because he’s suddenly ducking out of the way of the stranger’s flying fist, coming back up swinging, knuckles scalding as they collide into the guy’s jaw. Keith enjoys the pain. It’s what the guy deserves after his upright racism.

Keith hadn’t even been in a bad mood beforehand; but the mention of his parents and fucked up childhood always sparks something in him, alights a frayed wire in his brain.

The man stumbles back against a bar seat and Keith doesn’t hesitate, barreling forward and tackling his offender so roughly that it’s successful in sending them both hurtling sideways. It’s kind of sad how the partying crowds don’t even notice the scuffle going on around them, not including a woman who steps out of the way when the two of them flop to the floor.

The ground is a lot harder than expected, but Keith is unable to bring himself to care. He can just barely hear Shiro’s voice over the thumping music of the nightclub and the man’s angry slurs as they pour from his mouth in unintelligible jumbles of sentences.

Maybe this wouldn’t have happened if Keith wasn’t so angry. But anger is his friend, his second skin. He feels the heat about Shiro not fighting back bubble deep in his throat, and it intermingles with a months worth of bottled up annoyance. And, if Keith's being completely honest, he can’t focus on anything except for the way it feels when his clenched fist meets the man’s face again. His knuckles pop, and while it doesn’t feel so great physically, it does release balled-up surges of outrage.

Every hit sends his synapses aflame, and the buzzing sensation of adrenaline is oddly familiar. It feels right. It makes him feel alive. So he throws another punch.

Except this time skin doesn’t meet skin, and Keith is suddenly being flipped over onto his back.

His head connects with the tile so hard that stars explode behind his eyelids, and it renders him immobile long enough for the guy to roll on top of him. He never even threw the punches with flawless strategy like he knows he can, and he never even got a good look at his target, but by the way it feels like Keith's chest is collapsing in on itself from the man’s weight, he guesses that the asshole is built a lot more sturdy than him. He raises a clenched hand and Keith can only watch.

He knows it's coming and his muscles tense as much as humanly possible, but knowing doesn't soften the clout. A fist is as hard as it looks.

An intense amount of pressure strikes Keith's nose, and he tastes pungent red draining downwards into the back of his throat, a tangy ichor that he purposefully coughs up at the man. That only makes him angrier. Pain violently bombards Keith all at once when he gets clobbered in the face one, two, three times. Blood from what he thinks might be split lip spills into his mouth, and it makes him want to gag. 

Blackness creeps over the edges of Keith’s vision along with violent colors that merge and the man keeps punching, teeth exposed in a bloody snarl. Just when he strikes Keith hard enough that his nose cracks and he’s positive his cheekbone is going to finally cave in, Shiro is forcefully pulling the heavy stranger away. He’s yelling things that Keith can’t make out through the ringing in his ears, both eyebrows furrowed and angry; at him, most likely, because Keith always fucks up.

Always finds a way to ruin everything when his life seems to be falling into place.

What’s new?

Keith closes his eyes. Keeps them shut tight, and wills everyone and everything to go away.

 

* * *

 

Keith had been orphaned so young that he has no recollection of what it had been like to have parents. In a way, it was a blessing. If he could recall the tenderness of being swathed in a baby blanket, cradled against his mother's chest, being soothed by his father whenever he started to cry, he wouldn't have lasted a week on his own.

Knowing almost nothing about his background or family history, Keith could have been born in a janitors closet or a parking garage for all he knows. But judging by what little information the foster homes had managed to dig up, he's sure nothing compelling awaits in his past.

Only a broken interracial couple in Korea who didn't have enough money to provide care, so they permanently abandoned him. Left Keith outside someone's doorstep with a note explaining their situation and begging them to care for him, as cliché as it was. Out of love? Keith disagrees.

The woman who found him—a three week old baby crying on her porch in the middle of a rainstorm—hurried him to an orphanage. And that was that.

When Keith was two, he was transferred to another orphanage; St. Vincent's Home for AmerAsian Children in Pu-Pyong. He wasn't adopted, obviously. So he was once again transferred at age 5, this time overseas to America where he was dropped off at yet another orphanage. No such luck, and the never-ending cycle repeated itself, over and over and over. Keith went from orphanage to orphanage to orphanage, foster home to foster home to foster home.

At age 18, he finally left his last foster home for good. No more fake parents. No more pity. No more being looked after. Just he and himself alone.

And it hurt, initially.

It still does sometimes. But it’s a different pain, not like the chronic aches Keith has experienced his whole twenty-three years of life; getting beat up at school, receiving or giving bloody noses, and taking it all in with gritted teeth and clenched fists. The pain associated with his parents didn't physically leave a gash on his skin. It was deeper.

Keith did have Shiro and Pidge, of course. But having friends is definitely not the same as having a family figure to look up to in your life.

Well, that's not exactly true. Shiro is a semblance of that figure—a brother—and has been since they met when Keith was a freshman in highschool and Shiro was his Krav Maga teacher before he left for the military.

That's right. Shiro is a brother to him. Shiro, who drove him to school and back. Shiro, who went to Keith's graduation ceremony, and Shiro, who showed up from his house at two in the morning as Keith sat on his apartment floor and couldn’t breathe or think because he woke up from a nightmare where he watched everyone he loved die. Shiro who supported him through panic attacks, took Keith to therapy, taught him how to pay bills and how to manage his anger as much as possible.

Having Shiro as a brother...Keith would happily occupy the thought, but now he kind of regrets having the older man care about him so much. Especially after the fight last night.

After Shiro had lugged the man off of Keith and restrained him, Coran appeared to help. Keith hadn't passed out, but he was damn near close, so Coran just told him to take Friday night off to relax and heal. The police weren't called, luckily, and the man ended up leaving.

That didn't stop the lecture from Shiro. He'd said something about being disappointed in Keith, informing him that the slur didn't bother him when Keith knows for sure it did, before putting him into his passenger seat to drive him back to his apartment. They'd pick up his motorcycle once he was better or something. Keith hadn't been listening.

What made it worse is that Shiro wanted to take him to the hospital, probably because his face, shoulder, and knuckles looked fucked. Things went as they usually do; with Keith vehemently refusing. There was no way he was going anywhere after everything that happened. He just wanted to sleep.

So, Keith went against the older man’s wishes once again. Shiro ended up giving in. He was far too annoyed and tired to put up a fight. Still, Shiro was more worried than angry, and so he did make sure that Keith cleaned his wounds of coagulating blood before flopping into bed.

It didn't make Keith feel any less of an ass though.

As a result, this lovely Friday morning, is hell. It's excruciating to open his eyes, like someone just decided to throw acid straight into his corneas and tape weights on his eyelids. A steady blink or two strains the tender skin across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, which in turn makes the agonizing pain on the back of his head flare up. He wouldn't be surprised if he had a concussion after having his skull hit the floor so hard.

Keith muffles a grating sigh into his pillow, and hauls his bed sheets up over his shoulders, over his chin, over the very top of his head. He begs his body to go to sleep, but it won't, like it wants to punish him for fighting by forcing him to bathe in his constant ache.

It's even worse when Keith hears the front door of his apartment being unlocked, opening, and little footsteps pattering through the hallway towards his room. He already knows who to expect when the sheets are pulled away from his head.

“Damn. Someone really tried to head-butt you into next Tuesday.”

With a wince, Keith tries his best to lift up his head and keep his sleep-crusted eyes open. Before him stands Pidge, clad in a pair of tan shorts and a striped green shirt. Her countenance is twisted into a look of disgust as her eyes trace over his face. Wow. He must be really jacked up.

The boy attempts to sneer at her, but with how painful his split lip is and the way the action stretches the skin that has multiple swollen indigo bruises across his right cheekbone, it looks a lot more like a pained grimace. 

Because it is. He opts to just shove her away when she leans in to inspect him further. “Shut it.”

“I figured you would say that.” Pidge crosses her arms. “Shiro told me everything. Wanted me to check up on you.”

That makes Keith sit up a little. Man, his shoulder is on fire. “Guess he didn't want to come over himself.”

“Hey.” Pidge sighs and flings herself onto the edge of the bed, squashing Keith’s legs under her weight. “It's not like that. He went back to finish his shift and got off work at five this morning. He's tired.”

Silence follows, before Pidge hastily adds, “Must be nice to not have to see your ugly ass face.”

A scoff. “Because you somewhat resemble a garden gnome, I'm going to let that pass.”

Pidge would've beaten Keith to a pulp if he wasn't already one. Instead, she narrows her eyes. “And I'm going to pretend you didn't say that.” Keith opens his mouth to say something, but she cuts him off immediately. “Why did you even have to go get yourself beat up? Now you're going to have to come to my science convention tomorrow looking like a freak.”

Keith squints at her, frowning. His nose throbs. “What? I never even said I was going.”

“If you want me to give Shiro a good report on how you're doing, I’d decide otherwise.”

What Keith signed himself up for (or what Pidge just signed him up for, actually) he didn't know. At least he had the entire rest of the day to fret over the idea. “God, you're such an ass.”

“You still love me.”

There was no arguing with Pidge. She was a grade A ass, for sure, but he loved the little twerp. And she knew it.

“Whatever,” Keith murmured, tilting his bruised face away from her slowly, “just fuck off already.”

Pidge shakes her head, her short hair falling against her cheeks. She grins at Keith, her smile teetering on the edge of predatory yet strangely loving. “Nah. Now get up. Shiro gave me cinnamon rolls for us to share.”

 

* * *

 

Saturday arrives and Keith wants to bash his face against a wall. Which wouldn't do anything, because it feels like it hasn't started healing at all.

The mottled bruises on his cheeks and jaw look even worse than they did yesterday, a mauvey blue, with his split lip goopy and inflamed. His nose appears to have gotten the brunt of the fight, its bridge brutally swollen and blotted with multiple hues of purple and red. The nostrils, on the other hand, have finally shredded the last dregs of dried blood from them, so that was good.

And that was the only good thing out of this. Because today is Pidge's science convention that he doesn't even want to go to, and she will not let him stay home.

“I can't wait for the judges to see my plasma blaster. They're going to be stoked! Will you help me set up? Please?”

Keith sighs and looks away from Pidge’s wide, excited eyes. The girl had been badgering him all morning about this event, and now that they were actually standing outside of the building with her arms full of her tech gadgets (courtesy of Shiro dropping them off, mostly because he didn't trust Keith driving whatsoever) it looked like she was going to implode.

Now Pidge was looking up at Keith with her big brown eyes, and Keith feels his resolve, already weathered by a couple hours of begging, deteriorate at last. 

“Fine,” he mumbles, unable to stamp away a slight smile at the way Pidge lights up. She begins shoving tools into his open hands, and something made of metal and blocky grazes across his lacerated knuckles. Ouch. Can he get a break?

The two of them enter the building and it's ten times more packed then Keith thought it’d be; people are literally everywhere, their inventions crammed into every single free corner, fancily-dressed scientists with clipboards going around and watching the robotics. There's beeping from machines and the smell of pure iron and it all makes Keith lowkey nauseous. He almost stumbles over a robot vacuuming the floor.

“Oh my god! This is amazing!” Pidge bellows somewhere from his side. Keith wants to leave.

After taking more than thirty minutes to set up whatever the hell it was Pidge impressively made, Keith resigned himself to a fold-out chair against a wall. He watches Pidge happily chat to a curious couple that goes up to her stand, explaining what it's for and how she built it, and then something about particles. She glances over at him for a second, beaming, so Keith evokes a tiny smile onto his face; it's horrifically forced.

It’s nice that she’s having a good time. Really, it is.

It's just that having to pretend that Keith doesn't see the concerned or terrified expressions on every person that passes him is getting old. His face was all sorts of fucked up, sure, but was it really necessary to steer your children away? He wasn't going to bite their heads off.

Finally, following about an hour of slouching in the chair and lazily playing Solitaire on his phone, Keith starts to doze. The hum of low conversation entwines through his drowsy thoughts; even if he's kinda asleep, Keith registers the voice when he hears it.

“—don't throw it down like that, man! Be gentle!”

Keith's eyes snap open. He scans the large expanse of the room before him, and then sees the person who'd been talking. Right next to Pidge’s booth is a tall guy, hair in that little bun, setting up wires and plugging them into multiple blinking machines that Keith could never guess what they were for. 

It's Hunk. And he's scolding someone.

It's him.

None other than himself, Lance. He's in a mustard yellow t-shirt and shorts with a pair of black Nike slides. No glasses this time. A tangle of wires are in his hands while he whines about who knows what. 

And, as if some stupid force of the world wants to make Keith's life suck more than it already does, Hunk sees him. At first, the darker-skinned boy waves, before his hand falls a little along with the smile on his face. Yep. The damage that is his mug has been officially seen.

It takes a second before Lance turns to see what exactly Hunk is oh-so interested in, and Keith's breath catches when their eyes lock. There's no going back now.

He gets really close to getting up and walking out right then and there when Lance throws the bundle of wires into Hunk's hands, saying something, and decides to start crossing the distance between them.

“Holy shit,” Lance says aloud, attracting the attention of a few individuals with lab-coats, and making Keith wince. “What's up with your face?”

“Drop it,” Keith snaps, instantly self-conscious. He snaps his gaze away with a jerk, yet he’s able to make out the grin that plants itself on the other boy through his peripheral. The smirk fiddling Lance’s features is pretty damn obnoxious.

Instead of taking the hint, Lance soldiers on with conversation. “Who beat your ass?”

"No one." 

"Yeah yeah." Keith expects Lance to shrug it off with a laugh, and go back to Hunk with an idiotic comment to entertain Keith's chagrin. But that’s not what happens. Lance ends up stealing an empty fold-out chair from the booth next to them and plops it down next to him, its bolts creaking in protest when he sits down. “You look like shit. No offense.”

Keith’s eyes dart sideways towards Lance again, taking on a frown that painfully pulls the skin around his nose taught. “Why do you have to be such a jackass?” he grumbles, annoyance thick in his voice.

“Jeez,” Lance comments dismissively. “Where’s your warning label?”

Keith resists the urge to hiss out a breath of hot air through the tight line of his mouth. Chill. “Probably where your manners are.”

“Hilarious,” Lance sarcastically mumbles, leaning his spine against the back of the chair and propping one of his long legs over the other. “What are you doing here anyway? Don't tell me you actually like this kind of stuff.”

Not at all. Keith jams a finger towards Pidge. Her and Hunk seem to be absorbed in conversation. The two of them glance over at him for a second before turning back to each other and whispering; Pidge is probably telling him what happened to his face. Figures. Might as well tell everyone else in this stupid building. “A friend dragged me here.”

Lance nods, throwing his arms behind his head. He's looks like an over-reclined tool. “Yeah, same. I don't know what's going on.”

Keith remains silent, and wishes for some quiet because his head is thumping, but Lance has other plans. He shifts in his chair so he's looking at Keith head-on, before waving a hand in a circle around Keith’s face. “Okay, seriously, I don't think I can look at you anymore. Who did you make mad, Mullet?”

"Mind your own business," Keith says, flinching when the habitual scowl that settles on his features sends a flurry of pain up behind his eyes. He feels so sick right now, like he's going to pass out. "And I already told you to stop calling me that."

"Nope. Don't remember."

"Stop lying."

"I'm not lying," Lance counters. "In fact, I'm probably the most honest person in this room."

About this time, Keith would have something brash to say. Something that would make Lance pout and get defensive and start one of their dumb arguments.

But you really can't talk when you have a bunch of vomit making its way up your throat.

Keith's hand flies upward to cup over his mouth, and he lurches in his seat. Lance must realize what's happening, because his face falls and he's clambering to his feet. "No no no no no nope. _Not_ happening." The brown-haired boy reaches down and clasps Keith's wrist before tugging him in the direction of the bathroom. "Hold it in!"

If Keith could say anything at that moment, it would be something along the lines of _'if I could hold it in, I fucking would.'_ He allows Lance to drag him across the room, people turning and looking their way when he bumps into them.

With each step Keith's stomach twists and cramps. He keeps swallowing, and his throat keeps seizing as he fights his gag reflex, but no matter what he cannot stop the repugnant feeling ascending up his chest. To try and pacify the nausea, Keith attempts to focus on other things; putting one foot in front of the other, ignoring the way his bruises sting, feeling Lance's hand clamped around his wrist.

That last one helps a little.

When they cross the threshold of the bathroom and push past a dude using a urinal, Lance quite literally shoves Keith into a stall. It's good timing, because Keith can taste acid at the back of his mouth just as he reaches the toilet. He vomits into the bowl, a mixture of bile and the cereal he ate for breakfast burning his esophagus as it comes up and out, searing his broken lip. Every little movement hurts his head. Shit. Maybe he does have a concussion.

From behind him, Lance breathes out a sigh of what sounds to be a mixture of relief and disgust. "Jesus Christ. What did you eat?"

Keith retches again, nothing coming out this time. He manages to speak around the surges of another reflexive gag. "Can you do me a favor and just fucking shut up for once?"

"Hey!" Lance furrows his brows. He leans against the stall door, doing his stupid signature pose; hand on a hip. "I wouldn't talk like that to someone who just helped you to the bathroom before you threw up your guts."

"More like dragged me."

"What else did you want me to do?!"

"I don't know, stop breathing?"

"Kiss my ass, Mullet."

Right as Keith is about to rip Lance's dick off, another voice comes from next to the stall. "Can you guys stop already? I'm trying to piss here."

Keith and Lance both stiffen, Keith tossing a glance over his shoulder. Lance stares right back at him, before saying, "Yeah. You gonna stop throwing up, or are you gonna sit on the dirty floor all day?"

"Screw you," Keith mutters, spitting into the toilet to rid his mouth of the gross acidic taste before flushing it. For the most part, he seems to have stopped gagging, and his stomach isn't doing somersaults anymore. That's progress, Keith guesses. He should be fine. It was a temporary bug. Anxiety, possibly.

At least that's what he thought, because when Keith stands up, he nearly falls straight on his face. The only reason he doesn't is because Lance catches him by the arms and lowers him to the ground. "Woah, man. You are _not_ okay."

Keith doesn't respond immediately, head spinning, pressure on both temples. It feels like he's on a damn roller-coaster. "I'm fine."

"Uh, no. C'mon, I'll lift you on three."

Lance doesn't even give Keith a choice, wrapping his lanky arms around Keith's waist, and counting to three in the span of a second (which is definitely not how that works.) Keith hisses in pain when Lance lugs them both up to their feet, his puffy nose nearly bumping Lance's shoulder, and he blinks away black spots in his vision.

This sucks. So much. But Keith doesn't really have a decision in the matter, so he lets himself shift so they're shoulder to shoulder. As expected, it's feels awkward as fuck to lean against Lance. At least he's sort of returning the favor for that night when Keith carried him into his apartment and got thrown up on.

He'd highly recommend not having emotions.

With some minor adjustments consisting of Keith throwing an arm around Lance's shoulder and tons of cursing, they both move forward, Lance leading the way. They stumble by the man who had scolded them earlier, and then Lance uses his foot to kick open the door like some really bad ninja, slipping through when it's open.

The second they emerge, both Hunk and Pidge look up. Pidge shares an expression with Hunk as Lance goes to pass them, and then the smaller girl's mouth opens. "What the hell happened this time?"

Lance stops in his tracks, Keith being pulled to a pause. "He got sick, so I took him to the bathroom, and now I'm going to take him outside for fresh air. I know what you're thinking; I'm the best. Trust me, I know."

Pidge's face goes blank, and that's when Hunk intervenes. Keith doesn't realize Hunk is talking to him until he glances up to see the bigger man eyeing him with a worried look. "Are you okay? You look really pale, man."

"I'm fine. I just need to rest," Keith huffs. He discretely nudges Lance with an elbow as a sign to keep walking. He doesn't want to chat right now.

"He's all good. Still an ass, but good." Lance gives a curt nod as if to confirm Keith's wellbeing, before taking a couple steps forward. "Well, I'm gonna get going before he throws up on me. Catch ya later."

Hunk still appears worried, while Pidge just shrugs. Keith catches her giving him a thumbs up at her side.

 

* * *

 

Keith isn't sure how they end up leaving the building in one piece. 

They both sit on the grass next to the convention center, Lance lying on his back with his arms behind his head, and Keith sipping from a water bottle that they'd gotten from a vending machine on the way out. He's absolutely parched. 

The water and fresh air does help tremendously, and Keith realizes that he must've been super dehydrated. He can't recall drinking any water since Thursday night; it goes to show how much he sucks at being a human. 

"So," Lance says after about a full two minutes of quiet, "you gonna tell me what happened?"

Jesus. This guy is _really_ not going to let this fucking go. "When are you going to stop asking me that?" 

"Until you tell me."

Keith exhales the biggest sigh he's ever released in his entire life. As stubborn as he is, he definitely does not want to hear Lance ask that question again every single time they see each other (if they do see each other again, that is.) 

"Fuck, okay! But if I find out you told anyone, you're dead." 

Lance turns his head to look at Keith, a self-satisfied smirk crawling on his lips. Keith wants to slap him. He instead takes a breath, and speaks.

"..It was a bar fight," Keith starts. He sets the water bottle down between them, fiddling absentmindedly with his hands. 

"Why?" 

"Someone called my friend a slur." 

When Lance doesn't respond immediately, Keith finds himself nervous to look over at the other boy. He doesn't want to see Lance's face. Doesn't want him to become conscious of the fact that Keith is a fuck-up. That he does stupid things.

But when Keith lifts his chin to gaze at him, Lance has shifted onto his side with his elbow propped up on the grass, a cheek cradled in his palm. Keith doesn't know why he looks a little surprised when he talks. "That's..shitty. To be honest, I just thought you fought because you could." 

That used to be the case. Keith did that type of stuff when he was younger. Started fights and beat up people on purpose, for the fun of it. 'Cause he was always angry.

Lance continues. "Racist people are the _worst_. I've wanted to punch my fair share. Roundhouse kick them in the face, y'know?" Then, a little quieter, tone somehow still frivolous, he says, "Especially when they talk about my family." 

"What?" 

"What?" Lance parrots, flopping onto his back again and tilting his head to watch a cloud lazily cover the sun. 

Keith doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know if he's crossing a line on the topic or if it's too personal. Judging by Lance's expression, he doesn't appear bothered in the slightest.

They've gotten this far. Might as well.

Keith turns his head to look up at the sky, too. The cloud still hovers over the burning yellow ball, casting a towering shadow over them. "So, uh...People call your family things?" He doesn't look at Lance when he asks, but he thinks the boy nods his head.

"Yeah," Lance confirms, nonchalant. "I heard my older brother get called a spic, like, a few weeks ago? But we're Cuban, so it's bound to happen at least once." 

Keith freezes. "You're from Cuba?"

"Born and raised," Lance says, grinning. He seems proud. "We immigrated about six years ago. For a better life, my mom said." 

"Oh," Keith murmurs. His head starts throbbing again, so he settles on his back next to Lance. They both stare up into the blue atmosphere, silent.

Lance then shrugs. "I don't get called anything, though. Must be my good looks." 

"Yeah right," Keith snorts, moving his foot to roughly nudge Lance in the side. Lance punches his arm in return. 

"Whatever makes you feel better," Lance snickers, smugness radiating from the timbre of his voice. The sun is uncovered now, blinding, so they both turn to squint at each other. "How's yours?" 

"How's my what?"

"Your family." 

Keith feels his heart crash against his ribs. He is suddenly aware of the heatwave brewing in his chest, escorted by unalloyed jealousy. Keith can't draw a veil over the atrocious scowl that morphs his fucked up face. 

Lance's grin falls, and he stares at Keith, confused at the sudden mood change. "Woah, man. You alright?"  

Keith sits back up, too fast, so black speckles cloud his vision. He ignores it. Runs a hand through his hair, breathes out through his mouth. Lance follows suit, expression unreadable.

And before he knows it, Keith is telling him. _Why is he telling him?_

"I'm an orphan." 

No reply. Seconds tick by, and when he gathers a false semblance of courage, Keith spares a glance at Lance. He doesn't know why the boy's face looks super taken aback. What's he shocked about? That Keith had no one growing up? That he's struggled to be kind or empathetic his whole life, that he's the way he is because he was never taught otherwise? 

It feels like it's been an eternity when Lance eventually speaks. "O-oh." He gulps loudly, and awkwardly scratches the back of his neck. Maybe expects Keith to be reassuring. "Sorry. I didn't know." 

"It's whatever," Keith murmurs, the words drenched in far too much spite and acid. He doesn't mean for them to come out that way; they just do. His mouth has a mind of its own.

The air is heavy with a tension that hangs low over their heads, hot and drying. Keith licks his lips to wet them. It only painfully opens up his split lip for the fiftieth time, and he swipes the back of his hand over his mouth. It comes away fresh with a streak of blood. Shit. 

"That's...kinda nice, I guess?" 

Keith snaps his head towards Lance. What the hell?

Lance is grinning at him, jibing and without pity. Keith doesn't know how this guy manages to smile so damn much. "I mean, no siblings to bother you, no parents to nag or threaten to hit you with _la chancla._ Sounds pretty good." 

He was not expecting that. Anything but that. Keith stares at him dumbfounded, before just rubbing at his eyes. He's not that mad anymore. A little uncomfortable, or irritated, yeah. Not upset. "God, you're such an idiot," he mutters, words lacking any real venom. 

"Wow, thanks," Lance huffs, tearing up a fistful of grass and throwing it in Keith's direction. "Fuck you too." 

Keith swipes away the blades of grass that fall onto the front of his shirt and his lap, glaring. He scoffs. "What are you? Twelve?" 

"On a scale from one to ten, yes." 

Keith gets dangerously close to pummeling Lance when he starts laughing, and they both sit there until the sun starts to set, until people start filtering from the building. Pidge and Hunk emerge, looking absolutely exhausted, and the pairs say their goodbyes and split ways.

Lance salutes Keith before turning away with Hunk to walk towards the parking lot. Keith shakes his head. 

An idiot for sure.


	4. uno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pidge invites people over. Hunk is a master at Uno, and Keith struggles to tolerate Lance.

It takes more than a few days for Keith’s bruises to fade and a week for him to gather the motivation to go into work. It’s been slow, but he’s making progress nonetheless.

For the most part, things have been okay since the day of the science convention; Pidge is doing well in school and comes over almost everyday to hang out, things at the nightclub have been going fine, and there’s been no sign of Lance to make fun of him.

Shiro isn't mad at him anymore. They talk as they make drinks behind the bar, relaxed, and Keith would think nothing had happened the week prior if he didn't have the fading marks on his face to prove otherwise.

So Keith isn’t exactly sure why he’s feeling so grumpy on Sunday.

It’s 11AM and he’s attempting to run a comb through his bedraggled hair when there's a loud knock on the apartment door. Keith isn’t planning on answering it whatsoever, but then there's a squeak from the other side: “Let me in!”

Keith can literally feel the beginning of an aneurysm smack him straight in the forehead. Jesus. With a mumbled curse, he flings the comb somewhere onto the bathroom sink and trudges out of the room to open the front door.

“Finally.” Pidge wastes no time barrelling into the apartment with her laptop under an arm, reaching over to flick Keith on the bicep as she passes, and sinking onto his couch with a flop.

“Nice to see you too,” Keith sarcastically grumbles, closing the door. What a wonderful surprise. He patters over to the kitchenette, filling a glass with tap water and sipping it as he leans against the counter. “Don't you have better things to do than come here and bother me?”

Pidge props her feet up on the coffee table in front of the sofa, planting her computer on her lap. “Don't you have better things to do than complain about my unwavering friendship?”

The only reply Keith gives her is the most condescending look he can conjure up. Either Pidge doesn't notice, or she does and chooses to ignore it (yeah, probably the latter.) She adjusts the glasses on her nose with a finger. “Come on. Can't you act like you don't have a stick up your ass for, like, five seconds?”

Keith’s face knits into a scowl. “I hate you.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Pidge retorts—jokingly, despite how much she's attempting to steel the angry expression on her face. Keith isn't amused, shuffling to her side with his water and taking a seat beside her.

They sit in tranquil silence for a moment, Keith stealing a glance over Pidge’s shoulder to see what she's busy typing up on a blank document; he doesn't understand a single word on the page, so he just deflates into the couch. What an uneventful day.

It continues like this until Pidge apparently feels it necessary to bump her shoulder against his. “Go take a shower or something. You look like crap.”

Nice. Just when Keith thought he was looking halfway decent with his face somewhat healed. His split lip is almost nonexistent, and the bruising on his face has gone down, a light greenish-yellow. He glares at her. “Thanks.”

“Just saying,” Pidge shrugs. She's quiet for three whole milliseconds, and then a sly grin creeps onto her features. It quite literally has the power to send an uncomfortable shiver down Keith's spine. “I mean, you don't want your guests to think you're a slob.”

“What?” Keith narrows both eyes, lifting his glass to his lips. He's not playing any games today, and he really doesn't like the look of Pidge’s expression.

“Lance and Hunk are coming over.”

Keith straight up chokes on his water, coughing hazardously for almost a full twenty seconds before beating on his sternum with a fist. “What?!” He eventually sputters, slamming the glass onto the coffee table in front of them.

Pidge blinks. “I invited Hunk over when we met at the science convention. He wanted to bring Lance too, so I said sure. It's just a movie night."

Keith knows he baulks. 

Pidge must realize how badly he's going to take this, because she sets her laptop off to the side and twists to face him. “Don't freak out. I just thought it would be beneficial for you to get out of your comfort zone and all that,” she tells him in a rush. “Besides, they're going to be here at five tonight, so you still have time to get ready.”

“At my apartment?”

“..Yes?”

Silence. Keith breathes, and swallows. Part of him wants to let go of the annoyance brewing within him, to yell; how can she be so valiant? How can she assume this is going to fucking work?

Keith doesn’t want to be a part of this. He's the type of guy that relies on nobody at all, who doesn't like taking part in things that are unplanned. There's too much risk; too many things that can go wrong. He can't stand being out of control of a situation, and if anyone should know better, it's Pidge.

But it's difficult to look into her doe brown eyes and say something actually full of heat. Not impossible, but difficult.

So he just speaks. Or tries to. The words don't sound like his when they come out; far too wheezy. “Not happening.”

“Why?” Pidge protests, puffing out her cheeks. “It’s summer! What do you have to do that’s more important than actually being social for once?”

Keith groans, dragging a hand down his face, fingers stretching at his cheeks. “You know how I am, Pidge.”

“Exactly,” the girl says, patting Keith on the leg. “I just want you to have fun for once. So please don't make me turn them down at the door. Please?”

With one of the worst frowns known to man, Keith folds his arms across his chest and leans away from her. This is not how today was meant to go. 

“You should see yourself,” Pidge says to fill the sudden quiet. She tries to keep her expression serious, but Keith isn’t dumb; he knows when the girl tries to swallow back a smirk. “It’s just your neighbors.”

“And you invited them to my apartment without asking,” Keith interjects vehemently, “You could’ve at least told me.”

Pidge sighs. “I’m sorry,” she starts. “But you need to loosen up. Besides, we're going to watch movies. No one's gonna be paying attention to your woeful inner monologue.”

Fucking fine. Whatever.

“...Okay,” Keith mutters, words cloaked in bitter acid. Pidge only smiles at his response of defeat, giving him a couple very hard claps on the back.

“Cool! Now seriously, go change or something.”

With a sigh, Keith readies himself, absorbing all the peace and quiet he has before the inevitable. He spends the remainder of the day on edge, mainly because that's what he does best. He even showers for once; it lasts around two minutes, but it's something. 

Feeling much like a zombie acting on autopilot, he digs into the depths of his closet and pulls on a Nirvana shirt along with a pair of gray sweatpants, because fuck it. He can't be bothered to put effort into anything right now.

Even just thinking about having company (Lance and his annoying ass, for that matter) makes Keith move restlessly. He starts pacing up and down the hallway, gazing at the clock every minute, unable to sit down. There’s an uneasy sensation that stews deep in his core: an unrelenting impatience that comes along when you're expecting the unexpected and have nothing better to do. 

When Pidge calls to Keith from her perch in the living room—informing him that she'd been looking out the window and saw Hunk and Lance making their way across the street—Keith walks down the hallway, shoulders hunched while grumbling profanities under a breath.

Pidge offers a little smirk as he walks by (he's not sure if that's supposed to make him feel better or not) and he's surprised to find that his hand doesn't hesitate on the doorknob.

There on the porch is Lance, clad in a pair of shorts, flip flops, and a white Thrasher t-shirt, the smirk scribbled upon his countenance growing when he spots Keith standing with the door ajar. Hunk is beside the boy, chestnut brown hair held back in some sort of orange headband instead of the small bun Keith has seen him in before, a stack of DVD cases in his arms. “Hey man—”

Except Hunk’s sentence is cut off by Lance bumping past him.

“The party has arrived,” Lance announces, waltzing into the apartment like he's always lived there, full of confidence and pomposity. “I just chugged a liter of Coca Cola and ate half a bowl of stale Cap'n Crunch, so let's watch at least one movie before I die.”

Keith doesn't reply, instead opting to roll his eyes. Hunk apologizes on Lance’s behalf.

“Sorry,” Hunk begins, mouth clamping shut once Keith shakes his head and motions him in.

“It's fine.” Keith replies, in spite of the fact that his words come out a bit more deadpan than he meant for them to. He closes the door, at a loss of what exactly to do or say. They don't teach you how to not look like an idiot at school. “I just…didn’t realize I’d be having people over.”

“Oh.” Hunks eyes widen a little at that. He glances around, and Keith knows the young man is wondering if it's really okay to be here. “We can leave if it’s too much trouble.”

“Nah,” Pidge freely calls from her spot on the couch. “Get over here and put the movies in! Let's watch the horror movie first.”

As if asking for permission, Hunk looks to Keith, mouth in a lopsided grin. It instantly reminds Keith of a sweeter, more affectionate variant of Lance’s smirk. Sincere. So of course he can't say no. He just nods. Dumbly.

Luckily Hunk doesn't question Keith’s inability to socially interact, instead smiling widely before walking over to Pidge and the DVD player connected to the flat screen television.

“Pop that bad boy in,” Lance woops from out of nowhere, crashing onto the sofa next to Pidge. Keith spares a unenthusiastic glance at Lance, and then turns to the television where Hunk is placing a CD in the player.

And, for a minute, Keith just stands by the couch, staring at the TV screen. Not really thinking. Not really doing much of anything. All of this feels so...so strange.

Lance’s stupid, disparaging voice snaps him out of his trance.

“Scared of horror movies, Keith?”

Two things register in Keith’s brain at that very second.

One: It’s either the first or second time that Lance has said his name. How the two of them have succeeded in doing so, he has no idea. Maybe Lance had forgotten it, or maybe he thought ‘Mullet’ was more fitting.

Two: Lance is an actual asshole. He's downright sassing him. Keith is definitely not scared of horror movies. Not at all. Probably.

“I’m not scared,” Keith retorts sharply, turning off the lights before moving to join everyone on the sofa. Unfortunately, the only open space is next to Lance, so he considers sitting on the floor. He ends up taking a seat beside the boy anyway when Pidge tells him to stop being difficult.

Lance isn't convinced. He reclines as far as a human possibly can when on a couch, the expression on his face conniving and all. “It's totally cool, man. You can tell me. Just don't piss your pants, okay?”

“Shut it,” Keith grumbles, wriggling himself a little more upright against the armrest. He pulls a face at him. “You're probably the one who’s scared.”

“Am not!”

“Classic.”

This time Lance forcefully elbows him in the ribs, and Keith returns the favor by jostling him on the shoulder. The good thing is that the awkwardness between the both of them, from a week ago, seems to have disappeared. Truthfully, Keith is relieved they’ve gone back to arguing. Talking about personal stuff is just not their thing. He doesn't want it to be.

The bad thing is that Lance is still annoying as hell.

Their tousling turns into a small wrestling match that consists of elbowing, pushing, and shoving; they only stop trying to throttle each other when Pidge threatens to slit their throats as Hunk starts the movie.

“Wait.” Lance shuffles from beside Keith once the television screen lights up the pitch blackness that encases them. “How many movies are we watching again?”

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, Keith doesn't like horror movies.

But he'd be damn stupid if he let anyone know that.

At first, the beginning of the movie was slow, and kind of boring; it was about a family moving into a house haunted with a demonic creature or some shit, and it took about thirty minutes for the plot to even get mildly interesting. Lance decided it would be fun to prod Keith the entire time, consistently asking if he was scared, to which Keith would just swat him away.

There's a scene where the father goes up into the attic. A jumpscare of multiple dead children appearing in a circle makes Hunk scream and hide behind a throw pillow; Pidge yelps, her glasses going askew; and Lance chokes on air, nearly throwing himself off the sofa, before trying to play it off coolly.

Keith, on the other hand, remains frozen, mainly annoyed because _why would you go up to an attic you thought was infested with demons?_  He does hop a little in his seat though, yet Lance doesn't seem to notice, thank God.

Another clip sets Keith’s blood pressure sky high, when the same man is running in the basement trying to fend himself off from a creature that can crawl on ceilings.

“Grab the knife! Grab the knife!” Keith angrily shouts to the TV, while Lance is literally standing on a cushion, screaming something about grabbing a gun before making really awful  _pew pew pew_ noises. Hunk’s chain of anxious words are muffled from the pillow he’s using as an eye-shield, his legs pulled up onto the couch as if something might grab his feet. Pidge appears annoyed, pointing out places where the man could've ran.

This goes on for a full three minutes until the man gets skewered by a flying pole, wherever the hell that came from. They all groan in unison, Lance plunking back onto his respective cushion. “He totally could have survived.”

Pidge gives a grunt of agreement, while Hunk finally allows the pillow to drop.

“He tried his best?” Hunk says slowly, trying to lighten up the fact that the main character just died. The title screen flashes again with its loud barrage of unsettling music, enunciating the end of the movie.

“If running past an open front door was him trying his best, then he really needs to reevaluate his life,” Pidge declares, sitting up.

Lance nods, tapping on his chin like he's trying to pretend he's putting real thought into the matter. “Yeah, he kinda deserved it.”

Something runs through Keith’s mind then; there had been at least four solid inches of space between the two of them on the couch. But now, when Keith looks down, the brightness of the TV casting a soft bluish spotlight through the dark, he finds their knees are nearly brushing.

Apparently Lance has made the same discovery, because he nudges Keith in the waist with his arm. When Keith turns to glance at him, there are shadows that play on the smooth contours of Lance’s face, casting parts of him in hazy light. Keith can't really see the boy’s mouth in the darkness, but he thinks it's lifted into a taunting smile. “Can't resist me? I don't blame you.”

Keith sneers very unattractively at that. “Yeah, right.”

Pidge eventually gets up, ejecting the CD to put in a new one. Another horror, she says. Hunk hesitantly clicks play, eyebrows anxiously pinched, lower lip jut out. Poor guy is probably regretting coming over.

And that’s pretty much how the night goes on; each of them jumping out of their seats and taunting one another when they showcase a pitiful reaction. Again, it was mostly Hunk. He’ll need a therapy session after this.

It's only when they're three horror movies and two comedies in that everyone begins to realize it's 11PM.

“It’s dark out there,” Hunk cautiously whispers, now looking out the window. Pidge tells him he should run fast back to his townhouse, to which Lance says something about getting possessed.

Keith flicks the lights back on, squinting against the artificial glare. Tonight wasn't too bad. It was kind of... decent. Stressful with Lance’s complaining in his ear every five seconds, but besides that, no hard feelings. Not even a bitter taste has been left at the back of his throat.

“Dude, it's raining,” Pidge pipes up. She'd moved next to Hunk to stand by the window. For a second, Keith thinks she's joking, because they haven't gotten rain for, what, two months? But then there's the click of the apartment door opening, and the sound of sheets of rain hitting the front porch. Keith glances over to see Lance with the door open, staring into the night.

“Holy shit,” Lance whistles, hand on a hip. Keith shuffles next to Lance, peeking out into the open. Sure enough, it's raining. Really raining.

They are not soft raindrops, and they are not the light, misty precipitation of summer drizzles; they are round, full of humidity, and violent. It’s the type of rain that can completely drench everyone in just five seconds. A torrential downpour.

With that, Lance slams the door shut. “Guess we gotta have a slumber party.”

“What?” Keith frowns, paperweights tugging the corners of his mouth downwards. Oh _hell_ no. That's one thing that is definitely not happening. “You literally live right across the street!”

“Hunk, there’s blankets in the closet beside the bathroom. Lay them out on the floor while I go get the Uno cards,” Pidge announces, rushing off towards Keith’s room without any sort of permission. She passes Keith, and must know all the shit he's thinking, because she squeezes him on the arm before disappearing down the hallway.

Damn it.

“Sweet!” Of course Lance absolutely enjoys Pidge’s idea, going straight into the kitchenette. “Do you have any snacks?” He asks aloud, not even waiting for an answer as he flips through the cabinets.

What did Keith do to deserve this? He doesn't know how any of this works; he's never had any sort of sleepover before. Besides, isn't that like, middle school stuff? There's not even anywhere for them to sleep!

Then again, the reason he never had sleepovers was because nobody wanted to. Nobody wanted to hang out with the loner, nobody wanted to deal with his anger, let alone sleep in the same room as him. Nobody ever wanted to be next to him. But Lance and Hunk and Pidge...wanting to actually spend the night? (Well, Pidge spends the night a ton, but the others?)

Shiro would be proud. Fuck.

Feeling like he's bitten off more than he can chew, Keith restrains a scoff. What is he doing? “There's microwaveable popcorn in the top cabinet to the right.”

A hum of satisfaction comes from Lance as he finds the popcorn bags, tearing the plastic they’re in and tossing them one at a time into the microwave. Hunk has already moved the coffee table aside and begun laying out spare blankets as Pidge had ordered, testing their comfiness by prodding at them a couple times.

Keith then hears the slamming of his bedroom door, and the stifled pittering of Pidge’s socked feet on the carpet, as well as Lance making his way over to the living room with three bags of popcorn and four cans of Ginger Ale that he must've found snooping in the fridge. Keith allows his shoulders to droop, exhausted.

He hates change. Absolutely despises it. It’s terrifying, and this is a lot for one night. Too much, if it were up to him. But that doesn’t mean it’s not beneficial. That's probably what Shiro would say in this situation.

Once everything is together, they form a circle; the multiple bags of hot popcorn to the side, drinks at their feet, and two respective stacks of Uno cards in the center. Hunk is in the middle of dishing out seven cards to each of them when a single kernel of popcorn hits Keith in the side of the face.

Keith throws a glance sideways, and finds Lance with a smug grin as he shovels a handful of buttery popcorn into his trap.

“Fuck off,” Keith scowls, reaching over and stealing some popcorn from the bag. “I hope you choke.”

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry that I’m just better than you in every way.”

“You've got to be kidding me.”

Lance flings the popcorn bag with a wild wave of his hand, kernels flinging every direction. He gestures to himself, and then to Keith. “Nope. To put it into words: I’m Nicki Minaj. You’re Bella Thorne.”

Hunk perks up. “Dude! You can't just say that!”

Pidge interrupts them all, throwing her hands in the air. “Can you two stop bickering and play the game already? I’m going to start without you.”

That’s enough to make them pick up their stack of cards. Lance swipes through his own with a thumb. “Ohohohoho. You guys are _so_ going down.”

“Don’t just assume things, buddy. We know how that goes,” Hunk says, grinning, flipping through his own deck of cards. Keith doesn't have any idea what the boy is referring to, but it shuts Lance up.

He finds out what it means five minutes later when Hunk easily wins two games.

 

* * *

 

Keith grouses as Lance throws down a _+4_ card, giving the taller boy a good, hard shove. “Seriously?!”

“C’mon man, draw four!” Lance sniggers, ignoring the brutal scowl Keith sends him. Pidge and Hunk are stifling their laughter; this is the third draw four card that Keith has gotten in the past five minutes. It's starting to feel like everyone is teaming up against him.

Keith doesn't know what’s so fucking funny. This is the shittiest game of Uno he's played.

He draws four more cards, adding to his ever-growing pile, and apparently it’s hilarious, because Pidge starts cackling so hard that she nearly drops the can of Ginger Ale she's sipping. Hunk snorts.

“How are you liking them cards, Keith?” Lance taunts from next to him, legs crossed. He doesn't even try to hide his shit-eating grin behind a swig of soda.

The only thing that comes out of Keith’s mouth is a bunch of grumbled rubbish with a good ol' serving of foul language. Pidge calms down enough to curve her eyebrows in a patronizing manner, while Hunk makes an effort to swipe the amused smile off his face. “Sore loser, are we?” The girl asks, smirking.

“I'm not,” Keith denies, but it's a total lie. His competitiveness has always been off the charts.

“He totally is,” Lance says, to which Hunk gives a curt nod of agreement.

“I’ll shove all these cards up your ass. Don’t test me.”

Pidge shrugs, wrapping a slender arm around Hunk, who just allows himself to be manhandled by the gremlin. “I’m just letting you motherfuckers know that Hunk and I will be the last ones standing.”

Keith ends up excusing himself after the end of the sixth game. Lance, naturally, doesn't let him get away so easily. “Aw, giving up already?” he carols, so Keith flips him the bird as he walks away.

There in the bathroom, he relaxes, splashing his face with water from the sink when he notices how tired he looks. There’s a small throbbing behind his eyes, now faint, and his thoughts become less misty.

Breathe. In and out.

When Keith steps out of the bathroom, he hears Lance talking.

“—And then Hunk said something so funny that I skipped the laughing and went straight to crying.”

As Keith reaches the end of the hallway, he pauses. Watches the way Lance is laughing about something, clutching his stomach. Watches the way Hunk's eyes are wide, focused and diligent as he pays attention to whatever story Lance is retelling. Watches how Pidge gives a sarcastic comment and then playfully rolls her eyes when Lance says something witty.

They’re attracted to Lance, by his stupid magnetivity, and Keith is stuck watching from the sidelines and fucking wishing he could be like that. It's unfair. He finds himself prickling with something that feels a lot like jealousy.

Lance is annoying, obnoxious, and his arrogance is constantly overbearing; so how can he make friends so easily? He makes Keith fume. He annoys him, he ruffles his feathers, and finds ways to awake the heat in his chest. So how is it that Pidge, the girl who doesn't just make amends with people like that, actually looks like she enjoys his company? 

And Lance must know the effect he has on people. He has to. Keith sees it in his face when their eyes briefly meet across the room. 

Everything he's feeling churns into a whirlpool of emotions; lots of frustration and confusion. But in the gap between his ribcage, there’s a certain inkling of isolation, cold and foreboding.

It takes Keith a moment to hesitantly join in with Pidge and the others. They seem to have forgotten about the game, cards sprawled across the carpet.

All of them talk about random nonsense for thirty minutes, before Hunk yawns and explains he needs to sleep for an event tomorrow, and to that, Pidge says that she’s been procrastinating working on an essay for her tech class, so she has to get it finished. 

The two of them remove themselves from the circle. Hunk asks if he can have the sofa for the night—which Keith allows—and Pidge is already making herself a place on the floor.

Keith is grateful, because the one thing he wants most right now is to crash in bed and sleep for ten years. After Hunk has made himself a bed on the sofa (he literally falls asleep in like, thirty seconds) and Pidge is already typing away on her laptop, Keith flicks off the lights. Rubbing at his eyes, he makes his way into his room.

He doesn't even strip, just falls in a heap onto his mattress, joints cracking. It's when he gets comfortable does he realize that he left the fucking light on.

“And I thought my room was bad. Sheesh.”

Keith’s head snaps up so fast that he's surprised he doesn't give himself whiplash.

Lance is standing at the doorway, one of the spare blankets thrown around his shoulders. He tosses a look around the room, quite obviously observing it's top-notch messiness.

It feels like whenever things happen, they decide to do so all at once. Keith likes to keep things short and simple. He's pessimistic; anyone can agree with that. But this is getting insane.

Keith has to stop himself from gawking at Lance. He heaves an exasperated snort. “Get out.”

Lance suddenly isn't familiar with the English language, because he certainly doesn't do as Keith says. Alternatively, he uses a foot (why exactly is he still wearing his flip flops?) to clear a spot on the floor of dirty clothes, and then lowers himself to the carpet. 

“Are you deaf?” By some great miracle, Keith doesn't implode right then and there. “You’re not sleeping in here. Go somewhere else.”

Lance furrows both brows, and criss-crosses his long legs. “Hunk snores like there's no tomorrow, and I actually need my beauty sleep, thank you very much.”

Keith is about to make a comment about how sleep can't fix something so beyond repair, until Lance makes an extremely loud, extremely unreasonable gasp that probably depletes the earth’s entire supply of oxygen. Before Keith can react, the other boy is on all fours, staring at something underneath the bed with legit stars in his eyes like an absolute loser.

“What the—?” Keith mutters, slipping halfway off the bed to take a gander of what exactly has Lance so entranced.

It's Ruby.

The Abyssinian slips from her hiding place, stretching, before licking a paw. She doesn't spare a single look at Lance, who is now shuffling toward her slowly. He is such a child; an irritating, oversized child. 

“Well _hello_ , gorgeous,” Lance sing-songs, winking as he offers an outstretched hand for the cat to sniff. “Long time no see. Remember me?”

Ruby lifts her chin then; Keith has never seen a cat look so displeased before. For a moment, he thinks she might hiss. Surprisingly enough, she doesn't try to rip Lance’s face off. She actually allows him to skim a hand over her head, her amber eyes slightly narrowed. 

Keith stares in awe. “What are you doing?”

“Admiring this beauty right here,” Lance states, scratching Ruby behind her ear. She fucking purrs. “Can't you see? She loves me." 

Unbelievable. Keith has never felt more betrayed in his life.

"I'm going to sleep," Keith eventually huffs, ignoring the way Lance shoots him a smirk. He hops to his feet, stomping over to the light switch and flicking it off, quite literally throwing himself back into bed. "Don't bother me." 

"Roger that." 

It's quiet. 

Even though Keith can't see anything, he allows his eyes to remain open to stare into the nothingness that shrouds them. They're both silent, not a single sound except for the shuffling which implies that Lance has finally laid down. He's honestly surprised Lance has given in so easily.

With the silence, thoughts swirl Keith’s weary mind. He thinks, troubled, and can't stop the anxiety wracking his brain. It wasn't always like this; as a kid, he could pass out in the span of fifteen seconds, not a worry in the world except how he would face tomorrow. 

Maybe it's because he doesn't have as unfaltering of a hold on life as he used to. He's losing that steadfast control. 

The molten tar in his limbs that once balanced him now drag him under the current, heavy and unrelenting, as he struggles to keep his head above the waves with the worries of everything he is unable to change. He has too many unspoken sentences on the tip of his tongue, and a head he can't hold up more often than not. 

“Hey Keith.”

Keith wants to smack his skull against a wall. 

“It’s late. Go to sleep.”

"I can't," Lance whines. 

"Why?"

"I need a pillow." 

A sudden bout of frustration fueling him, Keith chucks one of his pillows in Lance's general direction, which hits the other boy straight in the face. He drapes his bedsheets around his shoulders like a cape as he ignores Lance’s splutters of surprise.

“Wow, thanks," Lance sarcastically quips in the darkness. 

Keith fluffs his own pillow before placing it under his head. "You're welcome. Now shut up." 

"Yeah, yeah," Lance mutters, stopping to yawn. "Don't let the bed bugs shove a foot up your ass."

That ends up being Lance's last sentence to Keith for the night, because with his two cents in, his breathing slows, and he's out like a light.

Keith falls asleep not long after. It’s a heavy silence, and he doesn't remember a single second of it. 

 

* * *

 

Morning arrives quickly. It's Keith who wakes up first.

He winces behind his eyelids, cursing at himself for being pulled out of sleep so fast. It takes a few minutes of him pressing his nose into the mattress and a couple stretches of his legs to even think about getting up. He doesn't feel like it.

Remembering everything from last night, and then becoming aware of the fact that Lance is sleeping here, does the job.

He blinks open his eyes to see the room is cast in a hazy, soft yellow, streaming in from the window. The atmosphere it emits across the room is not harsh and striking; it's soft and warm and blissful. 

Keith flips onto his back, yawning. He stares blankly at the ceiling, wishing for sleep once more. No such luck. Lance's steady breathing is relaxing, but his brain feels too alert. On edge.

And for a fleeting moment, Keith wonders if Lance had slept through the entire night. Wonders what unattractive faces he makes while sleeping. That last thought makes him give into impulse, peeking at the boy, turning away from the swirls of the white ceiling. 

Lance doesn't appear as ugly as Keith anticipated.

Instead, he is disheveled by sleep, his once sharp edges now blurred, and a nebulous spotlight of sun lights him up, honeying his skin with a soft gold. 

Lance  _does_ snort hideously in his sleep though, crinkling up his nose, drooling on the pillow, which is totally different from the boy who acts like he's the walking epitome of perfection; the boy with giant smirks, finger guns, and awful pickup lines. 

He looks...peaceful. Nice even.

Wait, no. _Fuck no._ He did not just think that. Keith flushes feverishly, and wills himself to clear his mind as he gracelessly slings his legs over the side of the bed. Definitely  _not_ gonna think about that ever again. Gross. 

_Come on, Keith. Get your head out of the gutter._

Sighing, he straightens out his wrinkled sweatpants and gets up. The clock on the nightstand reads _8:34._ Not too shabby of a night's rest (at least compared to the three hours of sleep he usually gets.) Ruby isn't anywhere to be seen.

After a minute or so of dopily wondering what exactly to do, Keith decides to shuffle over to Lance. He prods him in between the ribs with a foot. "Wake up." 

Lance mumbles something incoherent, nuzzling his nose against the drool-covered pillow. Virtually no response. Keith tries again, this time shoving harder. 

It provokes a hefty noise from deep in Lance's throat this time, low and gravelly. He grumbles and noses his way further into the blanket tangled around him. If looking like a human burrito was a contest, Lance would've just taken the cake. “Five more minutes." 

"Wake up,” Keith repeats, before adding, a bit mockingly, “You're getting spit all over my pillow."

A few more kicks in the side prompts Lance to finally open his sleep-crusted eyes. He swats Keith's socked foot away with a limp hand. "I'm moving, I'm moving," he mumbles, words tripping uneloquently over his tongue.

Keith hitches an eyebrow, and stares down at him cynically. "Doesn't look like it." 

"I am, okay?" Lance slowly sits up to shift his weight onto his elbows, and frowns at Keith with half-lidded eyes. His hair is tousled with an army of cowlicks, the brown strands slightly curled on the ends.

"Looks like someone slept well." 

"I  _was_ ," Lance remarked, more awake now than he was just twenty seconds ago. “What's the big idea?”

Honestly, Keith doesn't know the answer to that question. Maybe he wanted someone else to be awake with him. Maybe he wanted Lance to suffer from a lack of sleep like him. Who knows anymore.

Keith shrugs. "Nothing." 

That answer definitely does not go over well. Lance's frown deepens as he rises to his feet, albeit a little wobbly. "Are you serious?" 

“To be fair, you were drooling on my pillow,” Keith starts, "And you didn't brush your teeth. That's disgusting." 

"You didn't either!" Lance squawks, when he all of a sudden stops, blinking. He rubs at an eye, before groaning aloud. "Shit. I left my contacts in." 

Keith isn't sure why, but knowing that Lance wears contacts feels weird. It's almost like he'd been living a lie in thinking that Lance had 20/20 vision..but it does make sense as to why he was wearing those glasses that one day. Keith doesn't know why he didn't even think about it; it's not like Lance would be walking around blind.

"Just take them out?" Keith eventually suggests, crossing his arms. 

Lance squints at Keith as if he just said something absurd. And yeah, now that he thinks about it, he kinda did. Common sense. "No way! I kinda need these to, you know, see?"

"Then stop complaining."

"You're going to regret saying that when I die of eye-dryness," Lance replies. His mouth twists into a disgruntled pout. 

Keith shakes his head, unable to stop the weak smirk that spreads into a sly grin. He turns his face away to hide it. "Not really." 

It must be the diminutive grin that Lance had caught him wearing, because the boy abruptly displays a skeptical sort of uncertainty, tilting his head to the side as he looks at Keith. "What's so funny?" 

"Nothing." 

Lance's expression switches from suspicion to a wolfish grin. His tone is jibing as he slips back on a flip flop; one of them had somehow traveled across the room during the night. "Did you snort some drugs while I was sleeping or something?" 

Now that makes Keith scoff. He runs a hand through his thick hair; it's really tangled. He can't imagine how ridiculous he must look. "Unfortunately, no." 

"You know you love me." 

Keith sighs, swiveling to leave the room. He wants coffee. He  _needs_ it. "I tolerate you." 

Lance makes a noise of disapproval, grumbling under his breath about how Keith is just jealous of his natural beauty or some shit, and is sure to shove him before following him out the door.

Turns out Pidge and Hunk are already awake. They’ve made two respective places on the floor with a pile of blankets, and are sitting facing each other, chatting tirelessly. Pidge looks as normal as ever, glasses crooked as she shovels a croissant into her mouth and uses a free hand to type something on her laptop. Hunk seems to be content as he blows steam from a cup of coffee and munches on a glazed donut.

Keith is at a loss as to where a croissant and donut could've came from, until he sees a _Dunkin Donuts_ bag on the counter.

Seriously. How long have they been up?

Lance and Keith are a mess as they pad into the kitchenette. Hunk offers a welcoming smile, and Pidge shakes her head at what Keith’s suspects is his messy hair. She doesn't comment on it.

“I picked you up a coffee and a breakfast sandwich. I—uh—didn't know what you liked in your coffee so I just got it black. Sorry man,” Hunk tells Keith. He’s such a saint. An actual angel.

“That’s...fine. Thanks,” Keith says hesitantly, a strange sort of heat creeping up the nape of his neck. He really does mean it; it’s just that situations like this are really foreign to him.

With a sudden expression of concern, Hunk looks the shorter boy up and down. “Sleep well?”

“Decent,” Keith manages to mumble, grateful when Hunk passes him a steaming cup of coffee and a warm breakfast sandwich. Meanwhile, Lance has already somehow snagged a giant chocolate frosted donut from the bag. He looks so happy he might cry. “Bless your soul, Hunk. Please marry me."

Hunk just chuckles at his friend, continuing his conversation with Pidge as Keith and Lance turn to take a seat on the couch. They both collapse on a cushion next to each other.

Keith takes a sip of his coffee. It's bitter, but it's good that that way. He spares a single glance to his right where Lance attempts to shove the entire donut in his mouth without success. Their eyes meet.

"You gonna eat that?" Lance asks through a mouthful of dough, waggling his eyebrows at Keith's untouched breakfast with a grin. Keith has begun to notice that when Lance smirks (like, really smirks) he tends to look devilish. On a Pidge level, no less. But also kinda dumb.

“Yeah,” Keith blankly replies. "And you're not getting anything." 

Lance's manages a dramatic _humph_ of disappointment.

The two of them talk for awhile; mostly about stupid things, and they end up getting into an argument over spaghetti somehow, but it's not half bad. Both of them do snap at each other, yet Keith doubts that's ever gonna change.

Above all, it's strange. Keith has never delved into many conversations.

And he's definitely never rolled his eyes so much in his life.

  
“…the glue was so strong that it took two hours to get the slice of cheese off his face,” Lance finishes, ending the narrative of Hunk's journey to the emergency room a couple months back, due the events of a drunkenly insane snapchat story. 

Keith swallows the last bite of his sandwich and follows it with the final dregs of coffee, eyes narrowed. "You're actually an idiot."

"Hey!" Lance crows, his food long gone. "We were making macaroni art! It's not my fault the superglue decided to ruin our lives!"

"Macaroni art?" Keith asks, unimpressed. He doesn't know shit about arts and crafts, but he's sure gluing macaroni onto paper plates is not something a person in college would conventionally do. "Isn't that for kids?" 

Lance feigns horror, and buffs him on the arm with a hand. "How _dare_ you disrespect macaroni art like that." 

"Drama queen." 

"Mullet."

Keith's face is spliced by a frown. "Have you ever been held at gunpoint?" 

"Uh, no?" 

"Want to change that?" 

"Ha ha. _Very_ funny." 

They both make fun of each other after that, poking and prodding until they find something that makes the other bristle, until they get into one of their petty disputes. But it can’t last forever. Eventually, Lance and Hunk have to go. 

Hunk gathers up the movies he'd brought over before placing a friendly hand on Keith's shoulder to say goodbye, thanking him for the hospitality, while Keith tenses; it's a reflex he's still working on.

As Hunk is talking, though, Keith catches Pidge speaking to Lance out of the corner of his eye. Now, that'd usually be fine; people converse with people, and Pidge can talk to whoever she wants.

But the way she seems to be whispering to Lance, and especially the way she holds out a strip of paper to him that he cautiously looks down at before pocketing, irks Keith.

What. The. Fuck.

He tears his gaze away when Hunk smiles graciously at him, turns, and walks out onto the front porch, Pidge telling him that she'll see him at an event soon (another science convention, maybe. Keith doesn't know 'nor does he care.) 

"Catch ya guys later,” Lance calls as he follows suit, which Keith returns with a half-assed wave.

The second the door shuts behind them, Keith is already on Pidge's case. 

"What did you do?" Keith interrogates. Pidge doesn't crack under his death stare, shrugging as she moves to grab her laptop from the floor. 

"I didn't do anything." 

"I _saw_ you." 

"It's nothing bad, if that's what you're wondering,” Pidge then quips, shoving her laptop under an arm and fixing Keith with a stare. He cringes in advance. "I just gave him your number." 

The noise that leaves Keith's mouth is a mix between a cry and a groan. "Why would you do that?!" 

Pidge sighs out her nose. If the girl hadn't looked done with him before, she surely does now. "I'm putting all of us in a group chat tomorrow. To talk and stuff, okay? I gave him mine too, so calm down." 

That's...not what Keith was expecting. Apparantly his facial expression is an image to behold, because Pidge deems it necessary to explain herself. Her mouth is a thin line, and she rolls her eyes. "It was originally going to be Hunk and I so we could talk about the next convention coming up. But then I thought it'd be nice of me to add you guys in there too."

She pauses a moment, before adding, "And it's funny watching you guys fight, so."

Pidge is lucky she leaves unscathed.

 

* * *

 

When Keith gets home from work at 4AM that night (or morning, technically speaking) he climbs into bed and finally takes his phone out of his pocket. The glow lights up his face in grainy whitish-blue as he squints in the dark to make out what exactly is on the screen.

There's five unread messages; a few from Pidge, and one from an unknown number that was sent six hours ago. He opens it.

 

**From: 310-423-****  
wassup**

With a frown, Keith types a response. 

 

**To: 310-423-******

**Who is this?**

 

Keith places the phone under his pillow after hitting send, but is surprised to feel it buzz a moment later, not expecting the person to be awake at this time. He retrieves it, eyebrows scrunched together.

 

  **From: 310-423-******

**the object of your desire**

 

Oh.

 

**To: 310-423-******

**Lance?**

 

**From: 310-423-******

**the one and only**

 

Keith drops his phone onto his stomach, sighing. The upward quirk of his lips is small and hesitant, but it’s there. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter done! I owe it all to the gum surgery I had almost a week ago. It's given me some time to actually rest and type some stuff up.
> 
> Here, Keith has some trouble with a couple of things, one of those being jealousy as he yearns to be someone like Lance.  
> He's really beginning to think some things out. 
> 
> Next time will include a little fluff (that's the plan, at least) and shopping! More Lance and Keith, of course. We'll be able to see the friendship finally forming between the two boys. 
> 
> I can't really say when chapter 5 will be out, because I'll be entering my next semester at school and trying to adapt, but the wait shouldn't be more than 2 months. Struggles of a 17 year old, amirite? 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, and I'll see you guys again soon! :)


	5. friends or foes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A friendship blooms, but not without a grocery trip gone wrong and a bloody nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I'm so sorry for the hiatus. Turns out the new semester is a lot more hectic than I thought it would be, and I struggled to write. Reading your reviews really does give me motivation, and I wanted to thank you all for the wonderful feedback. Enjoy!

The sun is high in the sky and shielded by wisps of white clouds when Keith finally gets Ruby into the cat carrier. It’s taken an hour of hissing to even pick her up once he'd brought the kennel out.

Not the ideal start to a Wednesday.

None of this would be happening if Ruby didn't go ahead and get herself injured. It had been eight in the morning when she came inside to be fed, and Keith realized her paw was red and swollen. How it got that way? He has no fucking idea. The only thing he knows is that he needs to get her to a vet. Hopefully she won't attempt to murder the doctor.

She’ll probably avoid him for a week after this.

Because Keith can't drive Ruby around on his motorcycle, he decides to walk. Lucky for him, the closest vet clinic is five minutes away. Thank God. There’s no telling how long he can handle hearing Ruby spitting and growling at him for.

Keith eventually makes it; the building is large and intricate, made of expensive brick and surrounded with lush greenery. Colorful flowers line the pathway up to the front door, and Keith reads the giant sign perched in the front lawn.

Altea Veterinary Clinic.

When he enters, he's immediately reminded of a fancy doctors office. The front desk is made of granite, but not too flashy, and the waiting room is lined with silver chairs. A TV on display flashes through a slideshow of animals, and sappy posters of dogs and cats hang on the walls.

There's two people who sit behind the desk. One of them stops typing on her computer to look up at him and smile. “Can I help you?”

Keith awkwardly stands at the door for a moment, and then gives a weak shrug. “My cat is...um...she needs to see a doctor.”

The woman types away on her keyboard before nodding towards the line of chairs in the corner of the room. “I've signed you in. Go ahead and have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”

Keith mutters a thanks under his breath and sits down. He's not sure how long he absentmindedly stares at the white ceiling before there's the sound of a door squeaking open. He automatically turns to look.

This has to be a joke.

Keith’s breath hitches inside his throat and he almost chokes on a mouthful of spit as his wandering line of sight connects with a blue pair of eyes across the room and a brilliant smirk.

It’s tall, tan-skinned, obnoxious and annoying Lance.

He’s dressed head to toe in veterinarian scrubs, the fabric covered in a cartoonish dog and cat design, and has a stethoscope looped around his neck. Keith can just make out the name monogrammed onto the breast of the scrub shirt: _Lance Sanchez, Veterinary Technician_

He looks...good. Really good.

Keith sputters and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand at that last thought, while Lance wastes no time in making his way over to him.

“Well, well, well. Look at what the cat dragged in.” Lance chirps, perching both hands on his cocked hips. His posture is open and way too fucking enthusiastic. “I knew you couldn't resist me.”

Keith sighs heavily. Just breathe. “As if. Seeing your face makes me want to vomit.”

“Oh yeah? Well _your_ face—” Lance pauses as he tries to think of something witty to say in return. When he can't think of anything, he just sticks his tongue out. Mature.

It’s when Ruby meows from the cat carrier that Lance seems to suddenly realize her presence. He bends down and peers through the bars of the kennel. “Well hello. Didn't see ya there. How’s my favorite girl doing today?”

There's only a hiss in response. Lance purses his lips. “Awww, c’mon. Don't be like that.” He glances at Keith. “What's up?”

Keith sighs. “Her paw is swollen. I think she got stung by a bee or something.”

“That's it?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“Cool. Easy peezy.” Lance stalks off to a door and opens it with a dramatic flourish. He waves Keith inside, where he sets the carrier on the examination table. The room is small, but comfortable.

Keith watches dismally as Lance opens up the kennel and attempts to swoon Ruby out of it. What an idiot. “You never told me you worked here.”

“Yeah, because you never asked,” Lance says matter-of-factly. He reaches into the carrier and pulls Ruby out when she refuses to on her own; it's an absolute miracle that she doesn't tear him to shreds. Witchcraft maybe. Both can apply.

And, well, it is true. Keith never asked where Lance worked.

“Oh. Right.” Keith looks around awkwardly, trying to find something interesting, before stealing a glance back at Lance.

He’s cradling Ruby in his arms and tenderly scratching behind her ears.

It's kinda...surreal seeing him like this. He's not just a guy who loves annoying Keith and being the center of attention; he loves his job, too. This is what he likes. Taking care of animals.

He is seeing Lance in his element. It’s respectable. Worthy. It makes Keith feel a little overheated.

“Who did this to you?” Lance whispers.

“What?”

Lance spares a look at Keith. “Not you. I'm talking to my wife.”

The cat. Of course. Keith scowls at him. Moment ruined.

Lance turns to whistle nonchalantly after that, rocking back and forth on his heels, and gently whispering things to Ruby like “you’re a strong independent woman” and “Keith is a jerk, huh?” under his breath.

Just when Keith is about to insult him, someone enters the room.

Both him and Lance look up to see a dark-skinned woman. Her eyes move to Keith—enchanting and beautifully blue—and he finds himself stuck under her gaze.

She’s gorgeous, with soft features and smooth, silver hair scraped up into an effortlessly perfect bun. Keith recognizes her as the person he'd seen in a photo back at Lance’s apartment. Her name tag reads _Dr Allura Altea, DMV_

“Hello,” Allura greets kindly, her voice graceful with the elegance of a British accent. Her prismatic eyes are wintry yet sunny, reflecting the artificial lights with crystalline flecks.

Lance cuts in before Keith has the time to speak. “Good afternoon, _Princess_ ,” he says coquettishly, his voice so flirtatious that it makes Keith want to cringe. The wink he throws in is very unnecessary.

Allura just frowns, unimpressed, and turns back to Keith. “I’m sorry. I hope my assistant here hasn't given you any trouble.”

Keith is tempted to give a whole spiel about how Lance always gives him trouble. He decides not to. “No. It's fine.”

“I'm glad,” Allura sighs, smoothing down the white fabric of her lab coat. “What brings you here today?”

“Her paw is bothering her,” Keith replies. He can't help but roll his eyes when he catches Lance spinning in a circle behind Allura’s back, dancing with Ruby. Or at least attempting to.

Allura must somehow know this; it appears as if she's biting back the urge to make a brash comment. Instead, she just turns to face the technician. Keith doesn't know what expression she's making, but it must be scary, because Lance immediately stops.

“Okay, okay!” Lance mutters in a rush, setting Ruby onto the examination table. Her paw is puffy, and still looks irritated. “Little lady got herself into some trouble.”

“Hmm,” the young woman hums. “It looks to be an allergic reaction. A simple dose of antibiotics should work wonders.”

Surprisingly, Ruby isn't lashing out. Her tail is puffed, and she growls when Allura examines her teeth and listens to her heartbeat, but no blood is drawn.

In the end, Allura informs Keith that it's probably an insect bite, and gives him some antibiotics and a cream to take home. Lance is placing Ruby back into her kennel when he glances over at Keith.

“You should—uh—come over on Saturday. Hunk is going to a convention and I definitely do not feel like going again. Those things totally blow.”

Keith takes the cat carrier from him, his eyes slits. “What? Are you going to tease me about how bad I am at Uno again?”

“I mean—”

“Then no.”

“Hold on! We can play Mario Kart. I’ll provide the snacks.” Lance shimmies his shoulders.

It's not like Keith to give in so quickly, especially with an incentive that doesn't interest him. Still, Lance has seemed to always be able to convince him to do stupid shit. Keith hates the power he has over him.

But...a game night? Sounds harmless. And if it means Keith can get out of Pidge asking him to go to another convention, then he'll take it.

“Alright.”

Lance explodes into a grin of triumph. “See you at seven?”

“Okay.”

“Get ready to have your ass handed to you.”

Allura had been busy scribbling a few things down onto a clipboard, but she stops then. She appears intrigued. “You two know each other?”

“Unfortunately,” Keith mumbles bitterly. It comes out rude, which earns him an elbow in the ribs from Lance.

Allura must find this funny, because an amused smile lights up her face. She places her clipboard down and gracefully moves toward Keith. “I'm afraid I didn't introduce myself earlier. I'm Allura, owner of the clinic. And you must be…?”

Keith nearly juggles the kennel to shake hands with the doctor. “Keith.”

His answer must be surprising, because Allura hitches her eyebrows upwards. “Keith, you say? I've heard quite a lot about you.”

Whether or not that's good, Keith has no idea. He swaps a look with Lance; the boy’s face is twisted into an expression of feigned innocence. “...Right.”

Allura is just about to say something else before the watch strapped on her wrist beeps, and she glances down at the numbers. “Oh! Please excuse me. I have some other patients to attend to. It's been very nice meeting you, Keith.”

With a blindingly white smile, she bids goodbye, disappearing out the room. Lance waves to her enthusiastically, and leads Keith out.

The two depart, but not without getting into a debate about pineapple on pizza, and especially how Lance said he would rather die than order that shit when Keith comes over.

 

* * *

 

That evening, Keith attempts to get in a quick nap before leaving for his ten hour shift.

It's not working.

Keith rolls onto his side to glare at the the clock on his nightstand, trying to ignore the numbers glowing on its surface. He has two more hours until he has to leave, and it takes forty seconds for him to realize that he's not going to doze off.

He’s literally about to just get up and leave for work early when his phone vibrates somewhere underneath his pillow. Keith grabs it. It continues to buzz in his hand as he squints against the bright light to make out words on the screen.

Lance is calling.

Hitting the accept button, Keith puts the phone up to his ear. Lance doesn’t pause for breath when he picks up.

“Add me on Snapchat,” Lance demands into Keith’s ear. No hello or anything.

“Huh?”

Lance makes some sort of groaning noise on his end. “I need to show you something.”

Keith is sure he doesn't want to know what Lance is planning. He might just end up sending a bunch of stupid shit.

It’s not like Keith doesn't have already a Snapchat or something. He does, because Pidge convinced him to download it months ago, but he rarely ever opens it. Might as well put it to good use, right?

Keith sighs heavily, and obliges. “What's your username?”

“Loverboy Lance.”

“You've got to be kidding.”

“Pretty slick, right?” There's faint shuffling over the line, and it sounds like Lance is talking to someone. After a couple seconds, his voice returns. “Hurry up!”

Keith opens his mouth to question why exactly Lance wants him to add him so bad, but there's a click and then beeping indicating the call has been ended.

The fucker hung up.

Blowing a gust of frustrated air out through his mouth, Keith opens up the Snapchat app. He searches the username, and sure enough, the profile he's looking for appears. It comes up with the name ‘Lance Sanchez’ and he's suddenly not sure why he didn't just type that in instead.

Keith hesitantly adds him. Almost immediately, he receives a notification.

_Lance Sanchez  
Tap to view - 4:46_

That was fast. Someone’s excited.

Keith taps the button. The phone screen lights up with a video, and he can make out what looks to be the inside of the veterinarian clinic. Okay, so Lance is still at work.

At first it starts off with Allura saying something as she sorts through a pile of papers, and then the camera turns toward a large kennel.

Inside it is a bundle of six mewling kittens.

They're small, their eyes not even open, and they scoot around on the towel they’re laid on. Lance’s voice appears. “Look at my children. They're perfect.” Following a moment's pause, he opens the kennel. “They obviously take after me.”

That makes Keith snort. Apparently Allura found it particularly unamusing as well, because he hears her sigh heavily in the background. The video ends there.

Another Snapchat appears afterwards. It's just a selfie this time; Lance is posing, a tiny disgruntled kitten cradled in his hand, with a huge smile plastered on his mouth. Keith skims over the caption.

_i’m naming this one keith bc he came out of the womb looking homicidal_

Keith frowns hideously at that. Leave it to Lance to always find some way to push his buttons. He decides to take a boring photo of the ceiling and types out _Fuck off_ across the screen before hitting send.

Lance replies. It's a photo of him and a kitten with a silver-blue coat. Allura stands behind him, her arms crossed. Keith doesn't know what she's upset about.

_allura wants me to help her but im bonding w/ blue_

Ah.

Moments later, Keith receives a blurry photo of Lance sprinting away from an angry looking Allura. The caption is gold in itself, just blatantly reading “HELP.”

God. Why is he still in touch with this guy? Why is he adding him on social media?

Keith ignores the nagging feeling in his gut.

 

* * *

 

 It feels like midnight by the time Keith finishes rearranging bottles behind the bar.

There’s a group crowded in a line of bar stools—all college aged,  
and their laughter can be heard over the thrum of techno music, making Keith wince. He never got a nap in after Lance called, and exhaustion is finally catching up to him.

Keith ends up taking at least sixty orders as patrons consistently flag him over for refills. Usually he'd get annoyed; however, he's much too absorbed in his thoughts to really give any shits.

Why the hell is he thinking about Lance?

It's not like he wants to. Honestly. It's beyond his control, the way his brain keeps reminding him of the boy.

All night Keith has desperately tried to forget about the gracious slope of Lance’s nose, his dumb grin, the quirk of his eyebrows when he thinks he says something funny.

And it makes Keith angry. Angry enough that he doesn't feel the scowl on his face or notice Shiro sidle in beside him.

“You okay, Keith?”

Keith jumps a little, glancing up momentarily to see Shiro looking him down with a smile, before ducking his head again. He tries his best to ignore the older man’s stare, aggressively twisting the rim of a glass into sugar. “I'm fine.”

Shiro appears unconvinced. Keith can deceive as long as he keeps his mouth shut, but start questioning him and he's a mess.

Casually, Shiro adjusts the black apron around his waist and begins adding different ingredients to a cocktail shaker with ice. He hasn't dropped the subject. “You looked upset. Something on your mind?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Keith says blankly. “Just tired.” An overused excuse, although not entirely false.

“Alright,” Shiro chuckles. Keith doesn't miss the slight worry in his tone. “But I hope you know you can tell me anything.”

“I know.”

“Just making sure,” Shiro replies, tossing about the cocktail shaker before taking the glass in Keith’s waiting hand. He pours the contents, and garnishes the drink with a lime wedge.

Shiro doesn't bother him after that. They work in silence, squinting whenever a colorful strobe light shines their way, and take order after order.

Twenty minutes pass and Keith has to say something. He feels like he's going insane.

“I'm going over to Lance's apartment on Saturday.”

Shiro immediately gazes at him from over a broad shoulder. He knew Keith would eventually tell him; it's written all over the proud smile splitting his face. “That's great, Keith.”

“We’re just hanging out,” Keith says, as sternly as he can.

Shiro nods, but the way he teasingly raises his brows in playful suspicion makes Keith’s ears feel hot. Fuck.

 

* * *

 

Saturday arrives at breakneck speed. Too fast, in Keith's opinion.

He spends most of the day lounging around with Ruby, nibbling on snacks he finds in the kitchen cupboards, and absentmindedly scrolling through his snapchat.

Ever since Lance had called him those couple days ago, Keith has been using snapchat a lot more lately. He blames it on the fact that Lance hasn't stopped sending him photos of the animals at the clinic.

It's six in the evening, an hour before he has to go over to Lance's apartment, when Keith gets a text.

  
**From: Lance  
im going shopping for some snacks for tonight and you should come with me**

 

  
Keith frowns and types out a response.

 

  
**To: Lance  
No.**

 

**From: Lance  
keith, buddy, my man**

 

**From: Lance  
cmon**

 

**From: Lance  
do you want food or what bc if you’re not coming with me then consider yourself UNINVITED**

 

Keith blinks down at the string of messages Lance has spammed him with. Right  
when he’s about to reply, another text pops up.

 

**From: Lance  
look outside**

 

Keith’s first feeling is suspicion. And then his second feeling is reluctance, because who knows what Lance is up to.

He looks out the window anyway.

There, parked in Keith’s driveway, is a car. And beside that car, leaning against the hood, is Lance. He’s wearing bright yellow shorts and a pastel blue t-shirt with a pair of Aviator sunglasses perched high on his forehead. It shouldn't go together, but it works.

 _Ugh_. When isn't Lance pulling things off like a fashion model? The guy could wear a fucking trashbag and make it look nice.

It takes a full moment of brute will for Keith to calm down. He isn't sure why he steps outside; his feet just take him there of their own accord, and he doesn't realize what he's doing until he's standing right in front of the taller boy.

“What are you doing here?” Keith sighs, exasperated.

“We’re getting snacks,” Lance says, hands on his hips. He looks Keith up and down then, taking in his outfit, and both eyebrows pinch together. “Dude, it's like, eighty degrees. Why are you wearing sweatpants?”

Keith’s gaze automatically flits down to his clothes. Yeah, maybe the red flannel and grey sweatpants he’s wearing isn't a good choice. But hey, he wasn't expecting to see Lance this early. Plus, he's too lazy to change.

“They're comfortable?”

“Ohhh-kay. Just don't blame me when you die of heatstroke.”

“Really? Because that was the plan.”

“I’ll choke you out on Instagram live, _Mullet_.”

 

* * *

 

Once again, Lance has somehow convinced Keith to go. But it's not his fault for giving in so easily; the boy has a way to be so unbearably annoying, especially when he tries to make someone to do something.

The drive to the nearest Walmart isn't how Keith expected it, to say the least.

It's when Lance begins to belt out the words to Firework by Katy Perry at a red light that Keith decides he's had enough. He shoves Lance in the ribs, and Lance shoves him back with more force, before a car honks its horn at them for not moving when the light turns green.

Keith punches him in the arm for that, and Lance grins broadly, full of that melodramatic liveliness that he’ll never grow out of.

By the time they pull into a parking space, it's nearly seven, and the amount of Shakira songs Keith has listened to in the past forty minutes is groundbreaking. They both exit the car, and walk across the parking lot, the colorful sky melting into navy blue as the sun continues to set.

Lance apparently doesn't find it necessary to grab a cart, simply making his way for the junk food aisle, and nearly crashing into a pyramid of stacked canned peas. Keith allows himself to be pulled along slowly as Lance examines shit his body doesn’t need.

“How many chips are you going to get?” Keith eventually mutters, as Lance piles his arms with bags of Doritos, hot Cheetos, and tortilla chips.

“Mind your own business, Keith,” Lance retorts, and Keith contemplates telling him that he was the one who never wanted to even come here. “Better get ready for when I destroy you at Mario Kart.”

Keith snorts sardonically at that. “Say whatever makes you feel better.”

Lance begins walking backwards, facing Keith, snatching a bunch of random junk off the shelves they pass. “Oh, I will. Just you wait. The rainbow road is my _jam_.”

“I'm sure it is.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means what it means.”

“You're just mad that I'm going to beat you. I get it. Totally fine.”

A scoff. “Jesus Christ, Lance.”

“Just saying.”

And that’s when Keith becomes quite aware that Lance is about to walk right into one of those canned corn pyramids.

Not about to, actually. He does.

The awful, tinny sound of a hundred cans hitting the floor all at once echoes off the walls of Walmart, and almost every person in the general area looks at them; cashiers, shoppers, employees, everyone. Keith and Lance are frozen, and they glance at one another for a brief second, wondering what the hell just happened.

“Hey, you two! Stay right there!”

They both spin around towards the shrill voice, only to see an employee stomping at them. She looks mad. Really mad. Steam would probably be coming out of her ears right now. Shit.

“Run!” Lance drops his mountain of snacks, and is tearing through the store before Keith’s brain can even register the words. Keith turns on his heels and sprints after him, the racket of the employee fading with every step.

They speed through the automatic sliding doors of the entrance and down the dimly lit parking lot. Keith bolts between an innumerable amount of cars, and slips through tight gaps, feeling swift as ever and fucking _insane_.

Lance slumps against the side of his car, arms clasped around his abdomen as he falls to the concrete in an uncontrollable outbreak of laughter. Keith collapses next to him, trying to keep a straight face as he slides to the ground, but can't hold it in and laughs wildly until it physically aches.

That was...different. He hasn't laughed in so long.

As Keith’s chuckling lessens, he glances back over the roofs of the other cars around them to see if anyone decided to follow. Nobody is in sight.

When he whips back around, the expression on Lance’s face is unclear; it's somewhere stuck between hilarity and disbelief, judging by how wide and bright his blue eyes are.

“I knew you could laugh,” Lance breathes, flexing both arms behind his head and beaming as he leans his back against the car.

“Lance,” Keith sighs, trying to slow his heart rate. “I seriously fucking hate you.”

“Right back at you.”

Between the wicked heat of summer, and the thick fabric of the red flannel, Keith finds himself hot and swipes his sweaty forehead on his shirt. Heck, maybe he should've changed like Lance said.

And it’s blissful, for a second. They both sit there, on the gum-covered concrete of a Walmart, and stare off into the wide expanse of cars as they catch their breath. The sky is dark now, decorated with stars, and a warm night breeze whistles past Keith’s ears.

“Shit.” The silence, as usual, is broken by Lance exhaling dramatically. “We didn't get any snacks.”

That's true. Definitely not a part of the plan.

“There's a 7-11 a couple blocks away,” Keith points out.

“Say no more.” Lance immediately climbs to his feet, reaching into his pocket and retrieving his keys. Without hesitation, he slides the sunglasses—that have somehow defied gravity and remained perfectly perched up into his hairline this entire time—down onto his face. “Let’s roll.”

 

* * *

 

“I haven’t eaten all day,” Lance mumbles around a mouthful of Cheetos, mangling his words. The two of them have just barely stepped a foot inside the apartment, and Lance has already tore into a bag of chips. Classic.

Keith moves to set down a cheap 7-11 bag full of junk food, rolling his shoulders. Jesus. He wouldn't be surprised if Lance had just spent most of his paycheck on ten fucking pounds worth of snacks.

Shooting Lance a look, he begins unbagging their arsenal of artery-clogging food. “Why haven't you eaten? Don't you have a lunch break?”

Lance hums. “Too busy to eat.”

“Too busy?”

“Well, yeah. I was stuck in a surgery almost all day. And then I had to catheterize a dog, _and then_ it threw up on my gloves when I was trying to draw its blood. I don't know if you knew, but chunky dog vomit smells the worst.”

Keith almost gags. Almost. Leave it to Lance to nearly make him throw up when he hasn't even eaten anything yet.

“That's fucking disgusting.”

Lance plops down on the couch, flinging his sunglasses onto the coffee table. “How do you think I felt?! I was the one who had to hold it down when Allura was trying to take its temperature. And that was after it threw up everywhere!”

Yep. That's enough of that. “Okay, I’m stopping you right there. Let's just play the game already.”

Lance pouts, but the mention of a game has grabbed his attention. Together, they set up the Xbox, and Keith settles down beside him with a Twix bar.

How long they end up playing Mario Kart, who knows. All Keith worries about is beating Lance for the eighth time at rainbow road. It's hilarious, seeing Lance become agitated at getting bumped down a place whenever Keith hits him with a red shell.

“I thought you said rainbow road was your jam,” Keith taunts, smirking. Lance sneers, fingers speeding on the controls.

“It is! You're just cheating!”

Keith frowns. “I'm not cheating.”

“Yes you are.”

“No I'm not.”

“Yes you are!”

“No, I'm not!”

Their argument evolves into one of their usual shoving wars. They mess around, elbowing on another in the side while trying to keep their eyes on the game. Lance shoves his shoulder against Keith’s, nearly knocking him over, and so Keith returns it with a hard push of his own.

“Hey!” Lance shouts, losing his grip on his controller. He just barely saves Yoshi from falling off the side of a cliff. “Not fair!”

“You started it!” Keith remarks. He's pushing Lance again and again. Until he's not.

Because Lance, in the midst of their tussle, accidentally elbows Keith straight in the fucking face.

Immediately, Keith’s head is thrown to the side by sheer force. He feels nothing, and then everything, dropping his controller to grab at his nose. Stars explode in his vision. “Jesus _fuck_!”

Lance freezes, as if he's not sure what just happened. “Oh shit. Are you okay?!”

Keith doesn't answer. He just swipes two fingers across his nose, and they come away freshly red. “Fuck.” Not this again. He's had enough of getting his face bashed in.

“Dude, I'm—”

Lance is reaching for Keith’s face. It's a reflex, or a defense mechanism, the way Keith’s hands immediately move up to cup his nose. He can feel blood dripping onto the inside of his palms.

“Woah man, chill out! Let me help."

“You literally just punched me in the nose, and now you want to help?”

“It was an accident, okay! And I didn't punch you, I _elbowed_ you.”

Keith makes a bitter sound of disapproval, grimacing when it makes his nose throb. “Same difference.”

Lance scoffs. Apparently he never got the memo that Keith doesn't want to be touched, because he outstretches a hand again.

“Don't touch me,” Keith hisses. He's angry, and shit, this hurts really bad. It feels like his nose has gone to hell and back. Three times.

“Stop moving!” Lance says. “I have, like, three nieces and two nephews that are constantly getting hurt somehow! I know what I'm doing.”

That makes Keith pause. Images of Lance bandaging scraped knees and soothing crying children flash in his mind. He...doesn't know what to say. It was unexpected to him that Lance had a big family, let alone be an uncle.

There’s a lot of things he doesn’t know.

Shaking his head, Keith raises a hand to swipe it across his nose again. And that’s when Lance catches his wrist.

Keith’s gaze flicks up to meet Lance’s, and he’s taken aback by the determination that’s there, surreal and clear. His blue eyes are electric. They’re entrancing. 

Sure. Lance is super attractive, and Keith won't deny it. He's observed him a lot. Admired him. But it feels a little misplaced this time.

“Yep,” Lance says, nodding to himself as if he’s inspecting a crime scene or some shit. “We're gonna need a lot of tissues. Be right back.”

“Take your time,” Keith sarcastically quips, trying to keep his voice steadier than his heart was just a second ago. He watches Lance get up from the sofa and disappear into the kitchen. When the taller boy returns, he has a bundle of tissues in his hands.

It feels like an eternity before Lance plops back down onto the couch and passes them to Keith. “Here, put these up to your nose.”

Keith is silent, placing the bundle of tissue underneath his nostrils. With a stubborn huff, he starts to tilt his head back, until Lance stops him.

“Wait, hold on. What are you doing?” Lance asks.

Keith narrows his eyes. It’s obvious. “Stopping the bleeding?”

That makes Lance cringe. “Uh, no. Tilt your head forward, not backward. You want the blood to drain into your throat or something?”

Well, that’s new. Keith has always done the whole ‘tilt your head back’ thing since kindergarten. His entire life is probably a lie.

When Keith doesn't respond, Lance sighs. “Okay, look. Lean forward a bit. Tilt your head forward, too. Now pinch your nose together between your fingers,” Lance instructs. Keith doesn't fight it, as much as he wants to; he just does what he says, because he’s absolutely clueless.

“Alright!” Lance grins proudly. “See? That wasn't so bad.”

“It was pretty bad.”

“Nooope. Admit it. You need me,” Lance stubbornly insists. “Where would you be without me?”

Keith shrugs, nonchalant. “At home having a great time watching TV. You know, not having a bloody nose?”

“Shut up.”

The two of them lounge then, talking absentmindedly. They still make fun of each other though, despite the fact that it was the reason they got into this bloody situation. That's one thing that's probably never going to change.

And, even though it's Lance he's talking to, it’s not that bad. It's actually sort of nice feeling to be able to laugh over stupid shit and not feel...down all the time.

Five minutes later, and the topic is back on the whole nose thing. Ugh.

“It’s probably done bleeding by now,” Lance states. He leans forward into Keith’s personal space. “Lemme see.”

Keith wants to say something, to shy away from Lance’s movements. But for some wild reason, he doesn't. He just sits and stares.

And it’s bizarre. The last time Keith had anybody up this close was a couple months back when he was drunk and hooked up with some guy in a bar restroom. Not a very good thought to bring up in the moment.

Lance’s tan hands are soft, his fingers gentle as he peels away the tissue and peeks at Keith’s nose. “Looks good to me.”

“Perfect,” Keith murmurs mockingly, self-conscious, flicking his gaze away from Lance’s long eyelashes. He pushes Lance back into his own spot on the couch, frowning. “Now get your bony elbows away from me before I shove a foot up your ass.”

That makes Lance snicker for some stupid reason—which makes Keith smile, just a tiny bit.

“Uh, rude,” Lance chimes, carding a hand through his brown hair and giving him a smirk. “At least take me out to dinner first.”

Keith lets out a haughty snort. “Only if you pay,” he adds snarkily, getting up. He leaves the room to throw away the nasty tissue and wash his hands.

Even from the kitchen, he can hear Lance feign a dramatic whine. “I didn't know you were so low. I thought we were buddies.”

For some odd reason, Keith freezes in place. He knows Lance is joking, but...are they really friends? They'd have to be at this point, right? It's not like Lance just invited him over for nothing. Jeez, he really needs to stop overthinking things.

Apparently the sudden silence is awkward, because Lance’s voice rings out from the other room. “Keith?”

“Y-yeah. Be there in a second.”

When Keith finishes scrubbing the hell out of his hands, he decides to touch his nose to assess the damage without having to go look in a mirror. There's a deep painful throbbing that makes him wince; yeah, it's definitely going to bruise in the morning.

Once he grimly accepts his fate, Keith re-enters the living room to find that Lance has since moved positions on the couch. He’s now on his back, head against the armrest, one hand flat on his stomach and the other buried in a bag of potato chips. He breathes deeply, and if his eyes weren't open, Keith would think he was sleeping.

The room is silent, Mario Kart on pause on the TV screen. Lance must've stopped it after he totally bludgeoned his face.

“Are you going to ever stop eating?” Keith finally says, striding over. He shoves Lance's legs to the side and takes a seat.

“Nah,” Lance confirms, his expression smug. “I've only eaten, like, six bags of junk? I still haven't dug into the sour gummy worms yet.”

“You're literally going to die of a sugar-induced heart attack.”

“Here for a good time, not a long time,” Lance whistles, flinging a chip at Keith. It hits him squarely in the forehead.  
  
Keith scowls at Lance, chewing exasperatedly on the inside of his cheek as he falters over a wry and satirical comeback. “That's stupid.”

“What is?”

“Your face.”

They never continue the game after that. The rest of the night just consists of making fun of each other, chilling on the couch, and gorging on the rest of their food.

They talk about the drunk adventures they've experienced over the years, and Keith can’t bite back a grin as Lance tells a story about his friend Nyma convincing poor Hunk to down four shots of vodka.

Keith swears he's never listened to so many unfortunate events and eaten an entire bag of Takis before. Guess there's a first for everything.

“So that's how Hunk and I figured out I’m allergic to fried lettuce.”

“Wow.”

“Yep.”

It's around one in the morning when Lance finishes the eighth of the many long tales of his life. Keith is almost jealous of how much funny stuff Lance has been through, despite it always ending in a shitshow. The guy has basically done everything you could ever think of.

Of course, it's never complete without Keith insulting him in some way. “You’re dumb for thinking that would go well.”

Lance sits up for the first time in two hours; Keith doesn't know how he's stayed in one position for so long. “You're dumb for wearing sweatpants in summer.”

“At least I know how to cook a Hot Pocket,” Keith retorts, swiping the leftover sticky red Taki residue from his fingers onto Lance's shorts.

“That was one time!” Lance crows, slapping Keith's hands away. “And don't wipe your nasty ass chip dust on me! At least lick your fingers.”

Keith raises a brow. “Lick my fingers? That's gross.”

“It's called doing the world a favor and not getting your sloppy seconds all over the place.”

“Yeah, and then you get your saliva everywhere.”

“Well I didn't tell you to _lick the room_ , Keith.”

That makes Keith roll his eyes, but he smiles a little. The heavy feeling in his deep in his chest lifts. He feels lighter, and something else. If it’s comfort, he doesn't want to let it go. Lance smirks too, and opens his mouth to say—

Their banter is interrupted by a vibrating noise. At first, they both just look at each other, until the sound is recognized as Lance's phone.

“Ohoho,” Lance says. He manages to find his cell that has fallen through the crack of a sofa cushion. “Looks like Allura has finally come to her senses.”

Oh Lord.

“What do you mean?” Keith questions, straightening up. He stretches out his legs, his muscles aching for being curled in on himself so tightly. This better be good.

“Oh nothing,” Lance sing-songs, wiggling his eyebrows. “I just asked her out earlier today. You know, on a date.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope.”

“And you think she said yes.”

“I told her to give me a text when she stopped being mad and realized that I'm the person of her dreams. So yes.”

Keith tosses Lance a skeptical look. Very skeptical. This whole situation is weird. “Why would she be texting you at one in the morning?”

“Some people just need to think it out,” Lance shrugs, unlocking his phone. He's grinning as he opens up his messages.

And then he's not grinning. His face just...falls.

Keith watches as Lance’s lips grow into a taut line and he furrows his eyebrows, a deep crease settling between them as he stares in alarming silence over whatever the text says.

Puzzlement clouding his judgment, Keith is about to ask what's wrong before he's cut off.

“It’s getting late,” Lance loudly blurts. There's a sudden tension in his voice, thick and wavering. “You—uh—you wanna head out?”

Not really. Keith would rather stay for a while longer if it were up to him. He doesn't want to get up. And the way Lance is acting is far from right; even a baby would be able to tell.

“...Sure,” Keith says slowly, despite the copious amount of doubt running laps in his head. He's not sure why he's agreeing. “Yeah. I should go.”

The atmosphere is heavy when Keith rises to his feet. It literally feels as if he’s wading through a tidal wave of uneasiness when Lance stiffly gets up to walk him to the front door.

Keith feels even more uneasy when he takes a step out the door and glances over his shoulder to find that Lance’s expression has changed.

It's no longer held tightly or pained; instead, it's back to its usual egotistical know-it-all look. Keith almost thinks he might've imagined the anxiety on Lance's face from before if it hadn't been ingrained in his brain.

What the fuck?

“Tonight was cool,” Lance says, followed by a hesitant breath of silence. “See you later?”

“Yeah.” Words of asking if he's okay don't come out, stuck in the base of Keith's throat, and making a home on his tongue. He searches Lance’s expression, but finds nothing out of place; no evidence as to what just happened.

When Keith can't think of anything else to say, he just goes with his gut.

“Bye, Lance.”

 

* * *

 

That night, Keith has trouble clearing his mind. The image of Lance’s stupid face turned into that—well, weird uncharacteristic expression—won't stop bothering him.

Sure. He’s probably just overthinking it. Maybe Allura really did reject Lance and he's being butthurt about it. Butthurt enough to kick Keith out mid-conversation, which is a dick move, if Keith has ever seen one (but let's be honest, he's done way worse).

And maybe not; maybe something is going on. Even so, why should Keith care? It's none of his business. There’s no reason he should lose sleep over a new neighbor and his stupid ass love life. Things happen. You just have to learn how to let it go.

Keith has learned how to. Sort of. Well, not really. He still struggles with it, much like he struggles with his depression and ever-changing temper. It's a work in progress.

By the time Keith discards his red flannel and crawls into bed, it's nearly two in the morning. Sleep usually doesn't come so easy to him, but he dozes off rather quickly, tangled up in his bedsheets.

Everything is peaceful for a couple hours.

Until the sound of an iPhone dinging jolts him awake.

There’s a sour grumble churning in Keith’s throat as he feels around on his side table for his phone. Once he manages to grasp it after one long stretch, he clicks the home button, lighting the room up in a blinding whitish glow.

 _4:32._ Ugh. He’s barely fucking slept. Who the hell is bothering him this early?

Resisting the urge to just ignore it, Keith blearily swipes a finger across the screen to open up the messages. His eyes narrow when he realizes that it's Lance whose texted him; apparently the idiot never went to bed after Keith left.

 

**From: Lance  
btw im pretty sure i won the game**

 

There’s no preventing the frown and then the lopsided smile that morphs faintly on Keith’s lips.

 

**To: Lance**

**You wish.**

 

Without even thinking twice, Keith hits send. He waits a few minutes or so, but doesn't get a reply back. Lance has probably gone to bed by now.

In the end, Keith falls asleep faster than he thought he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so that was chapter five. Not sure if I like how this one came out but I can't be bothered to rewrite it. Hopefully I'll get the next one out sooner than this one. I have some things in mind, so I'll get to writing soon. Thanks so much for reading and leaving such kind reviews! See you next time! xoxo


	6. where and why?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance has been gone for five days. Naturally, Keith decides to find out what's up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! School and work have prevented me from doing much writing, but I'm happy to say that chapter 6 is finally here. I've already set up an outline for chapter 7, so all I have to do is get started. I'm hoping the next chapter will be posted before the end of June. 
> 
> Also, thank you so much for all the lovely comments! They make my day. :) Enjoy!

Wednesday turns out to be a relax-and-do-absolutely-nothing kind of day.

Keith hasn't even been awake for a ten minutes before he plunks onto the sofa in his pajamas, with a cup of coffee and the wonderful plan to lay around until work tonight.

Ugh. He really doesn't want to go.

Grouchily drinking his coffee, Keith opens up the messages on his phone. A couple from Pidge and one from Shiro.

No Lance. Again.

Nearly four days have passed without any word from him. Which wouldn't be out of the ordinary if, you know, Lance hadn't texted him everyday before his apparent disappearance from this fucking _earth_.

There’s nausea in Keith’s stomach when he actually puts thought into the situation, coming up with scenarios. Maybe Lance suddenly realized that hanging out with him was a bad idea after all.

Wouldn’t blame him.

Keith sighs. What else came up? It places him in a shitty mood. It shouldn’t, because Lance is only a neighbor he hasn't known for long, but it does.

The nice thing is that Keith doesn't have to spend today alone, because Pidge ends up coming around at noon to hang out. The two of them lounge on the couch (like usual) with Coca-Cola and a pack of Twizzlers. Pidge tells Keith about the science convention from Saturday and explains to him about how her and Hunk almost blew up the lobby.

So while Keith was getting bashed in the face by Lance's elbow, Pidge and Hunk were messing with inventions and nearly died. Sounds like Pidge. Hunk? Yeah, Keith can see that.

An hour or so passes, and once Pidge is finished talking Keith’s ear off, she pulls out her laptop to do some weird coding shit. Keith groans, and leans back against the armrest.

Life is so...boring without Lance to annoy the shit out of him.

 _Lance_.

Keith slips his phone out of his sweatpants’ pocket, and slides the lock screen. Nope, nothing. Still. Keith frowns.

“Why do you keep looking at your phone?” Pidge asks from her spot on the couch. Keith glances up to catch her staring at him, a Twizzler hanging out of her mouth. “Is your lover ignoring you?”

“Fuck off,” Keith scowls, hoping that his sour expression will convince her into keeping her nose where it belongs. It doesn’t work, obviously.

“You're so easy to read,” Pidge says, averting her attention back down to her laptop screen. “Lance isn't texting you back.”

She's right. Kinda.

Okay, so the thing is, Keith actually never sent him anything to begin with. Which may pose an issue, but its whatever. ”Your point?”

“Is he not replying to your messages or something?”

“...Sort of,” Keith says slowly, attempting an indifferent shrug. “I haven't texted him.”

Silence.

“Okay, hold on a second. You’re waiting for _him_ to text _you_ first?”

“Yes?”

“Well, duh.” Pidge snorts at that, taking the half-eaten Twizzler from her mouth and whipping it across Keith's forehead. He cringes. “You can't just expect people to reach out to you all the time. It starts getting old after awhile. Of course he's going to stop trying when you act like an uninterested ass all the time.”

Ouch. Okay. That makes...sense. Keith stares at her, kinda caught off guard. Honestly, he doesn't know why he thinks it's weird for him to text people first. Maybe it's because he feels like he's... _intruding_ , or being annoying.

Lots of maybes.

The thing is that Pidge is right, and Keith absolutely hates it.

“Come on. It's not rocket science; just text him. Say hi or something,” Pidge continues, before shooting Keith a conniving look. There's an evil glint across her glasses, like something you’d see in a fucking anime. “Or I could just do it for you.”

Oh hell no. That is definitely not happening. Ever. “Fine. I'll do it.”

With a snicker, Pidge returns to her typing, while Keith curses under his breath and opens up his message app. He taps Lance’s contact name, their past conversations lighting up the screen, only to find himself stuck.

What does he say?

Unsurprisingly, it takes Keith six attempts to write a text message that doesn’t sound too weird, prying, or too much like he actually cares. He eventually settles on something, and hits send before he can change his mind.

  
**To: Lance  
Hey. Are you alive?**

  
Yeah. It took five minutes to send a measly _hey_. Christ. He shouldn't be overthinking this. But fuck, he can’t chill; he holds his phone in a grip way too tight than necessary.

When there's no reply in the next fifteen minutes, Keith clicks his phone off and tucks it back into his pocket. That’s when he gets up to go to the bathroom, because he has the feeling that Pidge is gonna say something mocking (and that will just make Keith more annoyed).

Work tonight is going to be sucky.

 

* * *

 

  
There’s still no sign of Lance on Thursday. Keith wakes up around one in the afternoon, and he nearly falls out of bed when he sees an unread message waiting on his phone.

  
It’s not from Lance. It’s just Pidge.

 

**From: Gremlin  
How did it go?**

 

A heavy sigh. Leave it to Pidge to keep checking up on him. Keith types out a message and sends it.

 

**To: Gremlin  
He didn't answer.**

 

Ten seconds later, and his phone buzzes.

 

**From: Gremlin  
That's weird. I have Hunk’s number, so I can ask him where Lance is if you want.**

 

That's...actually not a bad idea. If anyone knows where Lance is, it's Hunk. They live together, for God’s sake. Why not?

 

**To: Gremlin  
Yeah.**

 

When Keith doesn't get an answer, he figures Pidge has switched gears and is busy messaging Hunk. He takes the time to shed himself of his t-shirt and sweatpants to actually get dressed for the day. Just as he's tugging on his favorite pair of black skinny jeans, he hears the thrum of his phone back in the living room.

If he knew that getting a text back would make him get ready a thousand times faster, then heck, he'd have someone text him all the time. Quickly buttoning his pants, Keith skips putting on a shirt entirely and exits the bedroom (why is he rushing?) and all but snatches his phone.

  
**From: Gremlin  
Hunk said Lance is working???**

 

Okay. So that's not what Keith was expecting. Of course Lance works; he saw him back at the clinic. But it's just strange. Lance has always had a job, and it's never gotten in the way of their conversations and arguments. Most importantly, why would it make Lance, of all people, stop texting completely?

Pidge follows up with another message.

 

**From: Gremlin  
Lance’s shift ends at two o’clock. Hunk isn't home right now, but Lance should be there by then. He told me that you can go over if you want to.**

 

Keith raises an eyebrow. Lance gets off work at two? That's in an hour, which doesn't really make any sense. He works at the animal clinic until six. At least that's what Lance told him.

 

**To: Gremlin  
Okay. Thanks.**

 

**From: Gremlin**

**Have fun ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)**

 

Wow. That last text really wasn't necessary. Thanks, Pidge. Appreciate it.

Setting his phone down, Keith exhales heavily. One hour. One hour, and then he’s going to Lance's house to find out what the fuck is going on.

 

* * *

 

  
At two fifteen, Keith pulls on a gray form fitting short-sleeve that shows off his biceps in the right ways (he swears it's not intentional, it's just really fucking hot today) and bids Ruby goodbye before stepping out the door. He glances across the street towards Lance and Hunk’s townhouse, and sees Lance’s car parked in the driveway.

He's home.

Keith runs an anxious hand through his hair as he reluctantly hauls his ass across the road, feeling the heat of the afternoon burning him through his clothes. He kind of regrets wearing skinny jeans now, but at least the t-shirt gives him some much needed air.

Upon reaching the porch, his mind freezes and it takes a second to rethink what he's doing. He can totally turn back now. He can leave before anything embarrassing happens. But...a part of him knows he's going to be frustrated, annoyed, and curious until he does this. Better now than never.

No more hesitation. He's done with second guesses.

Keith knocks on the door. He waits, taking on his signature defiant stance; arms crossed, hips angled to the side, eyebrows furrowed. At first, there’s not a single sound that he can hear on the other side, and just as he's contemplating knocking again, the latch clicks.

There's no turning back now.

The door creaks open to reveal Lance, and the sight of him makes Keith's breath stutter in his throat. He’s dressed down in a pair of black shorts that hug his long legs perfectly, and a stark white tank-top (which makes his tan skin fucking pop, and God, those _arms_ ) with an Adidas logo on the breast.

He looks really good.

Lance's face on the other hand… Not so good. He looks tired, worn-out, and like he’s running on caffeine. His expression does seem to liven up a little though, but that’s partly out of shock as he slowly realizes that _Keith fucking Kogane_ is standing on his front porch. Lance’s blue eyes widen, and his lips slightly part in surprise.

A few seconds pass with both of them just staring at each other.

“Uh, hey,” Keith breaks the silence awkwardly, arms unfolding and slowly falling to his sides. He feels selfish. Because he wants to know where exactly Lance has disappeared to, why he didn’t answer him, and why he suddenly fell off the edge of the earth for five whole days.

Lance blinks a few dazed times before his stiff posture settles a bit. “Hey,” he replies, albeit hesitantly. He's obviously confused as fuck. “...What's up?”

“You didn't reply to my text,” Keith immediately quips. He sort of surprises himself by how easily it comes out, without a single beat of deliberation.

Lance seems taken aback by the straightforwardness. He would be scratching the back of his neck if his hands weren’t clutching a gym bag and car keys (wait, how long has he been holding that?) so he just kinda has a blank expression, and shrugs with a heave of his shoulders.

“Sorry, man,” Lance says, tone edging on a sigh. He sounds utterly exhausted. “I've been really busy.”

Keith nods, and can't help the way his voice seems too coarse, too harsh, too wrong. “Yeah. I figured.”

Lance doesn't really seem bothered by Keith's brashness; in fact, he actually manages a grin. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, though. Which is...kind of scary. “What? You miss me?”

Keith glares at him (despising the two inches of extra height Lance has over him) and ignores the warmth blooming in his cheeks. “Don't flatter yourself. I just wanted to make sure you'd never text me again.”

“Harsh,” Lance whines, but it’s clear that he's joking. He looks more like himself now; his smirk grows until it is as broad, and he plants a hand on a hip. The keys hooked on his slender fingers jingle, catching Keith’s attention.

Forget everything else. What exactly is Lance doing? He just got off work—which is something Keith still has to ask about—so where else is he gonna be?

“Where are you going?” Keith asks, motioning to the gym bag in Lance's hand. He didn't know Lance was, well, active. His arms are nicely toned though...and his legs... _wow_. Okay. It does make sense.

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” Wherever he’s going must have slipped his mind by Keith’s sudden appearance. Keith doesn’t blame him, because he’s sure that what’s going on with Lance is way more important than an errand or whatever. “I'm going to dance class.”

Now that makes Keith splutter. Dance class. No fucking way. “You’re kidding.”

“What?” Lance crows. “I don't sit around and take care of animals all day. How do you think I take care of _this_ body?” He makes a show of wiggling his eyebrows and flexing a bicep.

Keith almost doesn't know what to say. “So...you dance to music?”

Okay, that was dumb. He wants to slap some sense into himself for saying something so stupidly obvious. Fortunately, Lance doesn't comment on it. Thank God.

“Hip-hop. Sometimes country. Like, banjo music.”

What the actual fuck. “You dance to country?”

“Nah, I’m just playing. That would funny though. Maybe I'll bring it up to Shay.”

“Please don't,” Keith huffs, rolling his eyes. At least he knows that Lance is still himself even with...well, whatever the hell is happening in his life. It's felt like forever since he's talked to him like this, when it's only been five days. What’s wrong with him?

“Nope. No promises,” Lance declares, before taking his phone out of his pocket and checking the time. His eyes widen, and he steps out the door to shut it behind him. “Shit. I'm going to be so late.”

“Oh.” Keith kind of wants him to stay, so they can talk a little, but he knows that would be selfish of him. Lance has things to do. He needs to get over it. “Okay. See you later, then.”

Keith turns to go down the porch steps, already beginning to dread the laundry he has to wash when he gets home, definitely not looking forward to work tonight.

“Keith.”

It's dumb how fast Keith spins around to glance at Lance, who still hasn't moved from his spot on the porch. He looks somewhat embarrassed, and his voice is a little unsure when he speaks. “You can, um, come with me. I mean, if you want?”

When Keith doesn't answer right away, his expression flat, Lance immediately backtracks. “Um—it's cool. You wouldn't have to do anything. It's two hours, and you might actually enjoy it, even though it's probably not up your alley, and—”

“Y-Yeah. Sure.”

Lance blinks. “Wait, what? Are you being serious right now?”

Keith shrugs. This is just a way to get out of doing housework and dodging responsibilities; at least that’s what he tells himself. “Yeah.” Quickly, he adds, “I get to see you make yourself look stupid.”

“Just you wait. I’m going to razzle dazzle you with my moves.”

An exasperated shake of the head is Keith’s only reply, and Lance shoves past him with a triumphant grin. “Now let’s get the fuck out of here, or else Shay is going to start teaching without me.”

“Teaching?” Keith parrots, following Lance toward his car. They both climb in, Lance tossing his bag into the backseat, and turning the key into the ignition. The car sputters to life, the radio volume low, and they both immediately roll the windows down. Jesus, it is hot as hell.

When Keith glances back over at Lance, the boy is looking at him as if he’s about to say something that will make Keith either cringe, or catch him off guard. There’s really no in between with Lance.

“Yeah,” Lance says simply, flicking his gaze away from Keith to the road behind them in the rear-view mirror. He reverses out of the driveway, a smug grin tugging on his lips. “I’m the dance teacher, Mullet.”

Holy fuck.

“You’re a dance teacher?” Keith breathes, eyes wide. His expression must be hilarious, because Lance looks pleased with himself.

“Yep,” Lance confirms, making a left down the street.

“Since when?”

Lance shrugs. “It started out as volunteer work. I love dancing, so why not teach it to other people? I only did it on the weekends, occasionally, but I...” He pauses mid sentence, as if he's planning his next words. “...I guess I wanted to do it more.”

There’s a strong nagging inside Keith’s gut; he gets the idea that Lance is leaving an important detail out, like that’s not the real reason. Like Lance is hiding something.

It's none of Keith's business. But he can't help asking what's been on his mind.

“I thought you worked at the clinic until six though?”

Now that makes Lance’s expression change. The boy appears as if he's been caught, his lips forming a straight line, suddenly stiff. Keith notices how his grip on the steering wheels tightens.

“I—I do. But…” Lance keeps his eyes trained on the road ahead of him, avoiding Keith's gaze. “I kind of took on the teaching as a job.”

Keith blinks, a little shocked. “Do you not work with animals anymore?”

Lance's eyes widen, and he hits the brake when a stoplight turns red. He shakes his head, glancing at Keith for a fleeting moment. “ _What?_ No! I work at the clinic every weekday until six, and then I teach dance class on Saturdays from three to five.”

That takes Keith aback. Lance is working two jobs now? Why? Even so, there are things that still don't make sense.

“But you're teaching the dance class today, and it’s not Saturday. You should be working at the clinic.”

“Shay has a new choreography she wants to teach so we can do it on Saturday. Gotta make some sacrifices for the kids sometimes.”

“Oh,” Keith says blankly. He looks out his open window, the wind rustling his hair as the stoplight turns green and they whiz past multiple buildings. Neither of them say anything for a moment, the silence uncomfortable.

“So...are you just doing it for fun, or…?”

Lance’s brow furrows; he looks like he so badly wants to bring up something, but his jaw remains locked. He’s wistful as he stares out the windshield, gaze fragile, thinking.

Keith almost feels bad for asking. He's about to tell Lance to forget it, before the boy sighs.

“I—” Lance starts, before stopping completely. At first, Keith thinks something might have happened, or maybe he’s having an aneurysm, until Lance reaches for the radio and turns the volume up seven notches.

And that's when Keith realizes that intro to Bodak Yellow by Cardio B is playing. Oh God.

“Okay, hold up. This is my jam!” Lance exclaims, beginning to rock his head to the rhythm and tap his fingers against the steering wheel. Keith gets the idea that Lance is trying to change the subject, to avert the attention away from him for once.

Keith rolls his eyes, and reluctantly lets the conversation go. He wants so desperately to know what's going on, but... Lance being upset isn't something he wants to see right now. Keith wants to have fun. He hasn't seen the guy is almost a week, okay? He'll bring it up another time.

“Said little bitch, you can't fuck with me, if you wanted to,” Lance sings, swaying around to the beat. Keith sighs exasperatedly, leaning an elbow onto the passenger door and cradling his face in a hand. He doesn't take his eyes off of the scenery they pass as the car flies down the highway, cherishing the warm breeze fluttering across his cheeks, and the bright blue sky.

Maybe Keith should try to continue the conversation. Maybe he should try to get answers. Maybe he should. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

He peeks at Lance fleetingly out of the corner of his eye, and those maybes dissolve into nothing.

Lance is smiling again, although it's not as wide as when they first started the car ride; it's been lessened by the sensitive topic of their previous conversation, but it’s a smile nonetheless.

The heated wind blows through Lance's brown hair, the strands pushed away from his forehead, and Keith is transfixed by the way he's grooving to the beat as much as physically possible while remaining buckled.

Lance is lost in the music.

Cheeks suddenly very hot, Keith flicks his gaze away again, glaring out the window. He bites down on his lower lip until it hurts, ignoring the skip in his heartbeat. Why is he so flushed? And why is Lance singing so fucking _loud_?

He's just about to tell him to shut up before he's jostled in the side by what he thinks is Lance's elbow. Keith looks back over at him, more than ready to rip his head off. He doesn't get the chance.

“C’mon dude,” Lance complains, shimmying his shoulders. “Sing with me! You have to know this song.”

Sadly, Keith does. The amount of times Pidge has blasted it in his apartment as a joke has permanently ingrained it into every single one of his brain cells. No way in hell he’s rapping this shit.

“No.”

“Do it.”

“No.”

“A verse or two?”

“No.”

“A sentence?”

“I said no.”

“Man, you’re no fun,” Lance nearly pouts, taking a right turn onto a side street. “Guess it's up to me then.”

Keith is about to question what exactly that means, before Lance begins to literally belt out the lyrics all the way down the road. Loudly.

“NOW SHE SAYS SHE GON’ DO WHAT TO WHO? LET'S FIND OUT AND SEE! CARDI B, YOU KNOW WHERE I'M AT, YOU KNOW WHERE I BE—”

Fucking Christ.

People on the sidewalk turn and stare in their direction as they drive past, appearing both confused and startled as fuck at the commotion. Keith even makes eye contact with a child on a bike, and shields his face in a palm, shaking his head. This is traumatizing. A nightmare. Humiliating.

So why is he smiling?

“Oh my god,” Keith groans, and he hates the way his grin morphs his words. “Shut up, please.”

“Nope.” Lance refuses. “I haven't even gotten to the best part yet.”

"I'm going to kill you.”

“Nah. Admit it, you love me.”

“You better stop right fucking there.”

Lance snorts at that, eyes trained on the road, and the relaxed expression on his profile kinda makes Keith’s stomach do a flip. Keyword: _kinda_.

Triumph makes a home in Keith’s chest, conjured from knowing that he did this. He made Lance smile. He lit the happiness burning behind Lance’s eyes, electric in the sun’s rays, lips curled upwards in a face-splitting smirk.

It was all him.

Fortunately, the rest of the ride doesn't consist of any more screaming, and Keith actually finds it nice. He likes the feeling of leaving his worries behind. He likes the feeling of getting out of the apartment. He likes the feeling of having a new friend.

 _A new friend._ That's something he never thought would ever happen. Life has a weird way of surprising you, huh?

Lance continues to rap the rest of the song, and Keith allows himself to grin freely this time around.

 

* * *

 

 Okay. The dance studio is bigger than Keith originally imagined.

It's a large building, welcoming and open. The floor is glossy and newly swept, lit up by round, blindingly white ceiling lights, and giant crystal-clear mirrors line one whole wall. The space is furnished with some mats and beanbags, and decorated with a bunch of posters, photos, and paintings of dancers. There's tons of windows.

It's stunning. Professional. Smells like rose air freshener. Keith almost feels at ease. He probably would, in fact.

That is, if there wasn't a whole group of children already waiting there when him and Lance enter.

The class is of different ages; seven to sixteen, he guesses. They're lined up against the mirrors, duffle bags and bottles of water stashed off to the side. Keith notices the way they all light up when Lance walks in; and he doesn't blame them. Lance has some sort of magnetic charm that always follows him. It's unfair.

And then they all look at Keith.

In all his life, Keith has never been intimidated by kids. But he's definitely feeling it now. They ogle at him in concentrated silence, most likely wondering why the fuck Lance brought in some random emo guy, and Keith has to try not to shrink under their unrelenting stares. Jesus, he’s sweating.

This was a bad idea.

“Hey guys,” Lance greets, voice light. He lets his gym bag slide off his shoulder and shoves it to a corner with a foot, clapping his hands together. “You ready to dance?”

Thankfully, the children's attention moves from Keith to Lance in a second. They all whoop, which in turn makes Lance beam. “Awesome!”

“Who is that?” A kid in the back of the group pipes up, pointing a small finger toward Keith. Everyone looks at him again, this time more intensely than before.

Why does this happen to Keith? What has he done to deserve this?

Lance has almost seemed to have forgotten Keith was there, eyebrows rising before he grins. “Everyone, this is Keith. He's going to watch us today, okay? He's a special guest.”

A few _oohs_ and _aahs_ arise from the class at the word ‘special.’ Keith isn't going to lie, his heart skips a bit against his ribcage at that. No worries. Lance is just being dumb.

“That's right. So you all better be on your best behaviors.” Lance declares, looking at each and every one of them as they nod fervently. “So let’s get this party started! Now where's Shay?”

Just like that, a side door at the far end of the room opens. A young woman appears, with light brown skin and short brunette hair, a pair of golden hoop earrings in both her ears. Her lips immediately tilt upward into a warm smile as her eyes settle on Lance.

Keith glances at Lance to see him returning the same smile. He lifts a hand to wave at her as she approaches.

“Hey, Shay!”

“Hi Lance,” Shay replies, the tone of her voice pleasantly soft and kind. It's sickeningly melodious, and makes Keith wants to melt at the sound of it. “I'm glad you could make it.”

“Me too. I'm actually surprised I got here on time,” Lance says, placing a hand on his waist. His attention falls on Keith, who is still awkwardly standing on the sidelines. Like always, he wastes no time with introductions.

“Shay, this is Keith. I hope you don't mind me bringing him.” Then, a bit quieter (but purposefully loud enough for Keith to hear) Lance whispers smugly, “He's a little clingy.”

Shay laughs lightly at the joke, and Keith can only fucking glare at Lance. He vows to get revenge on him later, that asshole.

“Not at all!” Shay reassures, turning to look at Keith. She's really pretty. And tall as hell, holy shit. “It’s nice to meet you, Keith,” Shay pleasantly smiles, offering him a hand. Keith hopes she doesn’t notice how he wipes it across a thigh, because his palm is sweaty. He shakes her hand.

“You too,” Keith manages, burying his hands into his jeans pockets.

“I hope you have fun watching,” Shay says cheerfully. “You can sit down in one of the beanbags. It's more comfortable than the floor.”

Keith nods dumbly, ignoring the complacent look Lance gives him, before turning to follow her directions. He chooses a giant yellow bean bag in the corner of the room, plopping in it.

It's actually pretty nice. Wow.

For a moment, he digs into his pocket for his phone. That is, until he remembers that him and Lance left them in the car. Lance had said something about how technology is distracting and he needs to get into his zen mode or something dumb. Ugh. Guess Keith really does just have to sit there and watch.

From then on, the class starts. The kids get all excited during the warm up, and are basically bouncing off the walls by the time Shay announces they’ll be dancing to the choreography they've been practicing, whatever that is.

He watches as Lance walks over to a large stereo in a corner, inserts a CD, and then picks up a remote to hit play.

 _Manolo_ by Trip Lee immediately begins. Lance and Shay take their respective places at the center of the room, and the kids make some sort of semi-circle around them, everyone spaced away from each other, ready to dance.

The beat is eager, thumping, and Keith feels it tremor in his heart. It constructs a fast-paced atmosphere that reverberates around the room and settles in the air.

When the lyrics start, it's game over. Lance and Shay are off. They sweep from foot to foot in movements that are cleverly on beat, executing a swift hop here and there, their arms popping and locking. They twist from toes to heels, unrelenting and immaculate.

The kids do the same, except they're not as in sync, definitely not as fast, making mistakes, and it looks a little sloppy, but it's so refreshing to watch them; they're smiling, laughing, and look like they're having a great time.

Keith finds his gaze moving to Lance.

The way he dances is entrancing. Joined perfectly with the buoyant rhythm, his actions are meticulous and seamless, arms and legs moving with unrelenting flexibility and gliding smoothly with the lyrics. Shay’s moves are more soft, subdued, yet remain expressive and controlled.

They compliment each other.

In awe, Keith keeps his eyes on Lance, his back handsprings and tuck jumps. The energy flowing from him is infectious, and he gets cheers from the older children who decide to sit and watch the scene.

It's all so him. Lance’s spirit is enthusiastic and vibrant, unable to be tamed, as he gyrates like greased lightning and snaps from motion to motion.

Some more of the kids stand off to the side to catch their breaths, practically screaming when Lance does a fucking front flip (how the actual shit?) and lands perfectly on his feet, immediately getting to the next move.

Amidst it all, a little girl slips out of line to go up to Lance and dance beside him. At first, Keith doesn't know if it's allowed; but Shay smiles brightly, and Lance looks absolutely ecstatic as she tries to copy his 360 spin.

The whole scene is so sweet that Keith is surprised he doesn't get a cavity right then and there.

Lance applauds and congratulates the girl when she executes a whole bunch of moves without a single flaw, appearing as proud as ever. He laughs hard, his entire body shaking with force of it, and it’s so fresh. The room is full of pumping music and deafening whooping.

Like the nightclub, but not stifling.

Not full of drunk people, not full of alcohol, not full of patrons demanding Keith to make them another drink.

It's so carefree here. Fun. Lively.

And Keith can’t restrain himself from observing every curvature, every arch and every bend of Lance. It should be damn illegal for someone like him to exist in the world. He has that stupidly large grin playing on his mouth, he wants to please everyone and look after the kids, and Keith is pretty sure his kidneys are becoming a part of his gut and—

Lance looks over at him. The sunshine spilling in from the windows is gold in his blue eyes as he sends Keith a dazzling smile; vivid, radiant, his breathing labored from the insane dancing. He’s gorgeous.

It's like the world has stopped on its axis.

When the song ends, Lance finishes the dance by doing a shockingly high death drop that makes everyone gasp (including Keith because wow, that was terrifying) and then clap. His chest is heaving with every pant when he rises to his knees, and it looks like his cheeks hurt with the pressure of his smirk.

Okay, Lance was right. He is a good dancer. An _impressive_ one.

And he knows this. The corners of Lance’s mouth rise in that devious way when he’s proved Keith wrong, the emotion rippling along his features razor-sharp, teasing and basically saying ' _I told you so_.' What an ass.

Lance's attention is pulled away when a couple of the teens go up to hug him and tell him just how awesome he was. He entertains them for a moment with his laugh. He looks happy.

After the kids are done screaming their heads off and Shay has moved to choose another song, Lance places his hands on his hips, and peers back at Keith. Although, they don’t stare at each other long, because Lance immediately walks over to him.

Keith is frozen in the beanbag like an idiot.

“So,” Lance breathes heavily, halting in front of him. His face is slick with sweat, and so he lifts the edge of his tank top and uses the hem to wipe off his forehead. A sliver of his tan abdomen is exposed, and Keith has to literally rip his gaze away when Lance focuses on him again. “I think it's safe to say that you're razzle-dazzled.”

Keith fights to keep his eyes trained on Lance's face, because man, they want to stray onto those slender, toned arms. Which isn't a bad thing; Lance has a very nice face. It makes Keith wonder why he’s taking care of animals when he could be making thousands of dollars looking like that.

“No,” Keith denies, but not even he is convinced. Lance was fucking excellent on the dance floor. “Not even a little bit. Sorry.”

“Wow.” Lance pretends to wipe fake tears from his eyes, dramatic as ever. “I can't believe this. After all we've been through.”

Keith huffs out some sort of laugh. “Yeah, okay.”

“And that's only the beginning of it,” Lance continues. “We have four more songs and that new choreography I told you about to teach. I hope you like Beyoncé.”

“Don't tell me you're going to be dancing to _Formation_.”

“Ding ding ding. We’ve got a winner!”

Keith has to resist the urge to face palm. Nothing could have prepared him for this. “Jesus. I should leave while I can.”

Lance only shrugs, grin blinding. “Too bad. You're stuck with me.”

“Christ.”

“Yeah, yeah. Now if you excuse me, I'm going to go snort a line of Fun Dip. I need all the energy I can get for this next song.”

With that, Lance departs with a salute, and spins on his heel to the group again. Keith watches his retreating back, and lets out a sigh. It's going to be a long two hours.

 

* * *

 

By four-fifty, and after listening to way too much hip-hop, the dance studio is empty.

Lance collects his things and they both wave goodbye to Shay as they step out the door. It's gotten a little cloudy since they've arrived, so that's good. The sun won't actually burn Keith's eyes back into their sockets.

Because the studio is part of some sort of outdoor mall, a bunch of stores line the perimeter. Instead of actually leaving, Lance manages to pull Keith along for some window shopping.

They stop at a Pacsun, and then a Hollister, Keith graciously appreciating how well Lance’s sweat-damp shirt clings to every curve of his torso as he points out what sunglasses he likes best, or how the mannequins’ outfits are horrible.

Today was nice. An experience. Honestly, Keith doesn't want it to end. He likes spending time with Lance. Although, Keith will never tell him that. Their friendship runs on the sole basis of constantly annoying the shit out of each other. He's not going to ruin it by insinuating that he actually cares.

The two of them walk then, shoulder to shoulder, and down in Keith’s core, there’s a warmth that has been multiplying. He doesn't know what it is. It's strange, is all he knows.

They're just turning a corner when Lance decides to stop ogling some shoes on a display, and actually says something that's not about how much he wants a new pair of white Vans.

“It's five thirty,” Lance starts, hiking his gym bag strap higher onto his shoulder. “You wanna grab something to eat?”

That sounds like absolute heaven right now. Keith is starving, and he wants nothing more than a milkshake and some fries. He still shakes his head. There's no time. “I can't. I have work tonight, so...I have to get home.”

At the words, Keith kinda feels a pang of guilt. Lance is his ride back, and that means he's preventing him from getting some food. He was dancing like a maniac for God’s sake; of course he's hungry.

Lance makes a face, and Keith thinks it looks a lot like...what, disappointment? It dissipates though, and it suddenly seems like he doesn't mind despite the patronizing tone in his voice. “Fineee. Whatever you say.”

They turn around then, trying to retrace their steps back to Lance's car. Tons of stores pass by, and it's about five minutes in to aimless walking that Keith realizes they're totally not anywhere near the parking lot.

“We’re lost,” Keith exhales bluntly. Looks like he's the one going to be late for work.

“No we’re not,” Lance retorts.

“Yeah, we are.”

“And how do you know?”

“Look,” Keith says, pointing toward a fountain that they for sure never saw.

It’s gigantic, iridescently white, jets of water surging high up into the air; the setting sun shines through the mist, snippets of molten silver, gold, and aquamarine twinkling along the water. Beautiful.

“Oh,” Lance says, silent for a moment. “Okay. Yep. We’re lost.”

Keith pinches the bridge of his nose, and sighs. This day definitely took a turn for the worst. “This never would've happened if you didn't drag me along for your stupid window shopping.”

“What?” Lance turns on Keith then, face screwed up into a frown. “You're the one who followed.”

“What else was I supposed to do?”

“I don't know! Tell me to stop?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Oh, shut up, Mullet.”

“Admit it,” Keith scoffs, glaring at him. “This is all your fault.”

Lance looks offended, placing a hand over his chest. “ _My_ fault?” He shoves an accusing finger toward Keith. “It's _your_ fault for coming with me!”

“Why can't you just take the blame for once?”

“Why can't you just shut up?!”

Keith is about to say something else, before he snaps his mouth shut. He's just realized that somehow, during their quarrel, they've edged closer and closer to the fountain. It's two feet away now.

This has taken a turn.

“Lance—”

“Don’t ‘ _Lance_ ’ me!”

“Hey, wait—” Keith warns.

Lance doesn't stop. “You're always brooding over something. I mean, can't you just stop being an ass for one second!”

“Lance, you idiot—”

“Oh, so I’m the idiot!” Lance squawks, and Keith knows what he's going to do when it's too late. Lance pushes him backwards, and that's all it takes.

Keith stumbles, and he’s pretty sure his life flashes before his eyes as his foot goes straight over the edge of the fountain.

Fuck this. He's not going down alone.

And so he reaches out for Lance, grabbing him by the front of his tank top, and pulls him along. With that, they both fall into the warm water with a loud splash.

Multiple people walk by, and stare into the bubbling fountain no doubt wondering what the hell is going on. Now this is an actual nightmare, if Keith says so himself.  
  
Three seconds later, and Keith rises with a bunch of water in his mouth, coughing, while Lance does the same.

Lance sputters, swiping his wet hair away from his forehead. Sitting up, Keith looks down at his shirt and jeans; they’re absolutely drenched.

And that’s when he thinks he should've never come. Because Lance only causes Keith’s head to cloud with annoyance and his brain to fill with anger. Which is exactly how he's feeling now.

“What the actual fuck, Lance?!” Keith hisses.

“You started it!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Ugh! You’re such a child!”

“You know what, Keith? Suck my ass through a bendy straw.”

Keith pauses. He doesn't deny the bubbling feeling in his chest at Lance’s stupid insult, and tries pretty damn hard to keep the twitchings of a smirk tucked away.

No. Don't laugh. He's supposed to be _mad_. It wasn't even fucking funny. By chance, Keith manages to keep a frown on his face.

Slowly, the two of them stand up; the water laps at their knees. A puddle collects at Keith’s shoes when he steps out, and his clothes stick to his skin uncomfortably. Thank God he left his phone in the car, or else Lance would be toast.

“This blows,” Lance all but whines as he follows suit, plucking at the hem of his soaked shirt and throwing his gym bag out of the water. Keith looks over to scowl at him for being the one complaining, because this is all his fault, but...stops.

The glow of dusk is a glittery mix of gold and lavender on Lance’s dark skin, reflecting a prism in his hair which is entwined with clear pearls of water. His eyes are beautiful; a deep, brilliant shade of blue, embracing the pastel hues of the start of a sunset, and having the sparkle of pure sapphire.

A fluttering sensation in Keith’s stomach urks him, and he has to look away before he gets sick.

“Pidge was right. You are emo.”

Moment ruined. Keith wastes no time in reaching over and kicking Lance in the shin. He yells. 

“Hey!” Lance snaps, but Keith can see his aggression slowly turning into laughter. He inhales sharply through his nose, not even bothering to hold back his dumb snickering.

“You're really fucking annoying,” Keith seethes, giving Lance a glare as he tries to punch his arm in retaliation. “When did she even tell you that?”

The sun apparently wants Keith to suffer more than he already is, because whatever clouds may have been covering it blow away in the wind. The softening rays still manage to be bright, making him squint. Whoever controls this earth obviously wants him to die.

Lance smirks devilishly at Keith, shielding his eyes with a hand. “At the convention. You know, the time you threw up and I had to—”

“Shut up.”

“Ooookkay. Just saying.”

“Why are you like this?”

“Listen, I didn’t ask for the sass. It was just given to me.”

Keith takes a gulp of air. Chill. “Forget it. Let's just go and ask for directions.” He takes a couple steps, before glancing at Lance over his shoulder. “I hope you like water in your car.”

From behind him, he hears Lance groan.

 

* * *

 

 By the time they get home, the blue sky has been warped into soft pinks and oranges, lilac in the eventide that spills across the horizon.

And Keith is most definitely going to be late for work.

Lance disappears into the apartment for a second, informing Keith to stay in the driveway because he’ll be right back out. It's another two minutes wasted until Lance appears, in a dry t-shirt, and a towel draped around his neck, threads of water still caught in his dark hair.

“What is it?” Keith deadpans, anxious to get home and change out of his clothes. They're still wet, made worse by the summer heat that makes them uncomfortable and sticky.

“Heads up,” Lance calls, before throwing a white towel at Keith's head. He catches it in a fist, and stares at it.

“Your hair is dripping like crazy,” Lance says. 

Oh.

Keith uses it as he's told, using it to scruff the shit out of his hair. When he looks back up at Lance, he finds that the boy is grinning. Keith can't imagine what his hair must look like. Stupid, and sticking up in different directions, most likely.

“Wow,” Lance says, trying to contain his laughter. Keith rolls his eyes, and throws the towel back at Lance's face.

“Shut it,” Keith snaps. It doesn't come out as harsh as he'd planned it to.

It's just that...well, he doesn't want to leave. He doesn't want to go to work. The truth is, as much as Lance annoys him, Keith sort of revels in his company. Leaving and facing his problems—it's not something he wants to do after feeling so untroubled in such a long time.

Keith is speaking before he can stop himself.

“So,” Keith begins. He takes a breath, and steadies himself. He remembers Pidge’s words from this morning, egging him on. Just say it. “We should hang out some more. On Saturday. After your dance class.”

Lance blinks. For a moment, Keith thinks he's said something wrong, until the boy offers a small grin that creaks on his lips. It’s forced as hell. Fuck. “Oh—uh—that sounds nice and all, but…I’m busy."

Judging by the look on Lance’s face, Keith can tell that this isn’t the regular type of busy. It’s not the ‘I have work’ sort of busy, but more about dealing with things. Stressful things. Mulling over them, all by himself. Alone.

Keith exhales heavily. Lance takes it the wrong way.

“I’m not lying,” Lance quickly adds. He sweeps his fingers through his wet hair,  
and shrugs his shoulders meekly. “I just—”

“It's fine,” Keith says, cutting him off. Really. It is. Lance doesn't need to explain himself to him. He just wishes that Lance wouldn’t feel so uncomfortable talking to him about stuff. “I get it. I'll talk to you later.”

Lance opens his mouth to say something else. When nothing comes out, he just closes it and scans Keith’s face for a moment. Keith can only stare at him and try to quell the strange hitch in his heartbeat.

And then a second later, Lance notes snarkily, “Try not to miss me too much.”

Keith snorts. “There's nothing to miss.”

After going back and forth with a few insults, per usual, they both bid each other goodbye. Lance ends up getting the last word. Keith lets him.

 

* * *

 

  
When Keith’s shift ends at four in the morning, he’s absolutely drained.

He gets back home at four-thirty, eagerly unlocking the front door and making a beeline for his bedroom. Peeling off his work shirt and jeans, Keith throws his phone onto his pillow, and wastes no time to flop onto the awaiting mattress.

  
Sighing, he grabs his cell. The screen lights up his face in as he opens up his inbox.

 

**To: Lance  
You suck at dancing, by the way.**

 

Keith hits send, shoving the phone under his pillow. He doubts Lance is awake at this time, so there's no point in waiting for a reply. He probably wouldn't even do anything if Lance texted him back. He's too deep in thought.

The brilliance of Lance’s smile strays in Keith’s mind as he stares up at his white ceiling, waiting for himself to doze off. Insomnia has been hitting him hard for the last week, so he wouldn't be surprised if he'd be laying there until the late hours of the morning.

As it turns out, it’s not hard to fall asleep thinking of Lance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it for this chapter!
> 
> I feel like this one was kind of slow, but it was necessary to progress the story. Next one will hopefully turn out a lot more interesting. 
> 
> I'm not going to reveal much, but let's just say that there's going to be some good old drama. Keith will have to come to terms with himself, and Lance will have to finally face what he's been hiding. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I'll see you next time! xoxo


End file.
